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DRUMSTICKS 


DRUMSTICKS 


KATHERINE 
MARY 
CHEEVER 
MEREDITH 

(JOHANNA  STAATS) 


A  LITTLE  STORY  OF  A 
SINNER   AND   A   CHILD 


(SECOND  EDITION) 


MDCCCXCV 
THE  TRANSATLANTIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 
63  FIFTH  AVENUE 

LONDON 
26  HENRIETTA  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN. 


COPYRIGHT,  1895 

BY 
THE   TRANSATLANTIC  PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 

CHAPTER  FAOB 

I.  In  which  the  Sinner  meets  the  Child ....  5 

II.  Being  an  interpolation 27 

III.  In  which  the  Sinner  repents 43 

IV.  Introducing  the  Woman  who  was  a  Wife, 

but,  most  of  all,  a  Mother 61 

V.    Showing  how  the  Sinner  posed 75 

VI.    Containing  a  Confession 94 

VII.     Showing  how  the  Child  seemingly  profits 

by  the  bin 101 

VIII.    During  which  the  Child  is  happy 119 

IX.    Dealing  with  the  Sinner,  the  Child,  and 

a  little  Ship 131 


PART  II. 

I.    In  which  the  Child  makes  a  Prayer 137 

II.  In  which  the  Good  Woman  learns  to  lie. .  152 

III.  In  which  the  Woman  thinks  aloud  a  little  168 

IV.  The  Ship  reaches  the  Star 175 

V.  Showing  that  the  Lucky  Sinner  knows 

a  Woman 189 


178218G 


'  For  the  daintiest  bird 
Is  the  sport  of  the  storm." 


DRUMSTICKS. 


"  For  the  daintiest  bird 
Is  the  sport  of  the  storm." 


PAET  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 
IN  WHICH  THE  SIN X EE  MEETS  THE  CHILD. 


"  HAVE  they  como  to  the  sweets  ?" 

"  I  believe — they  have." 

A  man's  astonished  gaze  sought  the 
shadows  above  upon  the  first  stair  lauding, 
where  the  stamped  leathers  of  the  wall 
were  imperfectly  lighted  by  a  swinging 
Venetian  lamp.  It  was  a  small,  cautious, 
yet  tranquil  voice  which  had  thus  ad- 
dressed him,  and  he  walked  slowly  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  his  head  upon  one  side, 
fondling  his  smooth  chin,  hesitating,  as 
he  regarded  the  person  of  a  young  female 
child,  whose  one  white,  trailing  night  gar- 


6  DEUMSTICKS. 

ment  was  worn  with  sleepy  nonchalance. 

A  child  ?    And  here  ! 

He  had  known  of  its  existence,  yet  the 
incongruity  of  its  presence  in  this  house 
had  never  struck  him  before.  He  had 
been  aware  that  somewhere  away  up  in  the 
fourth  story  there  was  a  place  where  a 
child  lived,  uneventfully  enough,  hidden 
away  under  the  eaves  like  a  swallow.  The 
thought  had  knocked  at  the  door  of  his 
sense.  He  had  heard  Sophie  speak  of  her, 
yet  not  as  often  as  she  had  spoken  of  the 
cook. 

He  had  never  seen  the  cook.  But  here 
was  the  child  in  person.  There  was  a 
puzzled  interrogation  in  his  air  as  he  ap- 
proached the  small  being.  Its  name ! 
What  was  it  ?  He  could  not  recall  it. 
Yet  he  remembered  that  he  had  thought 
that  creature  of  laughter,  Sophie,  alluding 
to  a  canary  when  he  had  first  heard  her 
use  it. 

"A  bird?"  he  had  asked. 

"  No,  my  child/'  she  had  replied,  some- 
what carelessly. 

And  he  had  taken  it  quite  seriously  for 


DRUMSTICKS.  7 

as  long  a  time  as  it  had  taken  him  to  finish 
the  cigar  he  was  then  smoking.  And  af- 
terward he  had  found  that  nothing  apper- 
taining to  Sophie  could  be  for  a  moment 
taken  seriously. 

"  Have  they  marrons  to-night  ?" 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Will  you  fetch  me  some  ?" 

"  With  pleasure  ! " 

"And  not  tell  ?" 

"  Not  I.     I  never  tell." 

"  That's  because  you're  a  man/'  was  the 
amazing  answer.  "  Boys  never  tell.  Girls 
do.  Sophie  does.  Joy  says  so.  /  don't. 
But  then  I  never  have  anything  to  tell." 
Here  the  child  laughed  cheerfully,  adding 
with  emphasis :  "  Perhaps  you  wouldn't 
mind  going  after  the  marrons  right  away. 
If  you  don't,  they  may  eat  'em  all  up." 
She  extended  both  hands  with  a  dramatic 
gesture  and  upturned  pink  palms. 

The  child  seemed  tall  for  her  years, 
which  Poole  imagined  to  be  seven.  She 
was  very  slim,  with  a  small  head,  upon 
which  the  dark  hair  was  closely  cut.  John 
Poole  made  a  laughing  inclination  as  he 


8  DRUMSTICKS. 

turned  upon  his  heel,  disappearing  within 
a  supper  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  leav- 
ing his  new  acquaintance  to  peer  between 
the  uprights  of  the  balustrade,  rubbing 
her  eyes  sleepily  and  yawning. 

The  polished  floor  in  the  hall  beneath 
her  reflected  dully  the  stiff  black  legs  of  a 
couple  of  chairs,  as  well  as  the  snow  of 
some  roses  heaped  upon  a  pile  of  fur-bor- 
dered wraps.  It  was  close  upon  midnight, 
and  the  warm,  perfumed  atmosphere  was 
frequently  cut,  as  with  a  knife,  by  the 
sharp  air  from  without,  when  the  door 
opened  to  admit  guests,  who  were,  with- 
out exception,  men.  Lamps,  shaded  in 
embroidered  laces  and  gay-colored  silks, 
dimly  lighted  a  small  unoccupied  recep- 
tion room  at  the  right  of  the  entrance. 
But  the  chief  radiance  fell  from  the  open 
door  of  a  supper  room  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  Laughter,  scrappy  sentences,  ex- 
clamations, greetings,  and  farewells  could 
be  beard  from  within,  where  some  half- 
dozen  people  sat  informally  about  a  table. 
A  woman's  voice,  shrill,  mocking,  yet  sin- 


DRUMSTICKS.  9 

gularly  sweet,  singled  itself  out  from  the 
rest. 

The  child  waited,  listening,  her  dark 
eyes  gloomily  apprehensive  of  a  failure  in 
the  raid  she  had  instituted  upon  the  mar- 
rons  glacee. 

Her  wide-parted  lips  revealed  bits  of 
tiny  darkened  first  teeth,  of  which  one 
was  already  loosened,  being  displaced  by 
a  firm,  white,  new  one.  This  she  nerv- 
ously fingered,  in  a  childish  way,  with  a 
little  thin  forefinger.  The  child  had  a 
small,  fine,  perfectly  straight  nose,  which 
promised  character  to  the  face  in  future, 
and  already  gave  a  certain  charm  to  its 
immaturity.  The  eyes  were  large,  soft, 
and  expressive.  Leaning,  she  grasped  the 
balustrade  in  both  hands,  looking  down 
into  the  hall  with  grave  anxiety,  and  shiv- 
ering as  she  felt  the  night  air  which  en- 
tered with  the  last  visitor,  a  new-comer, 
a  tall,  anaemic  young  fellow,  who  nodded 
to  Poole  as  he  returned  with  the  desired 
marrons. 

"  Alex ! " 

"  Poole  !     What's  your  hurry  ?  " 


10  DRUMSTICKS. 

A  glance  explained  the  situation. 

"  The  youngster,  hey  ?  Say,  Poole, 
wasn't  it  glorious  ?  " 

"Very  good." 

"  Very  good !  Nonsense  !  It  was  a 
hit.  There'll  be  a  long  run  !  I  suppose 
Sophie  is  receiving  congratulations.  In 
a  hurry  ?  Ah,  I  see.  Paying  court  to 
the  child,  eh  ?  I  suppose  it  is  hers. 
Isn't  it  ?  " 

"  If  you'll  allow  me,  I'll  go  and  ask  it." 

"Certainly.  Well — yours  later."  And 
the  speaker  vanished  within  the  supper 
room. 

That  night  the  new  light  opera,  "The 
Golden  Bubble,"  had  put  a  cap  and  bells 
upon  the  head  of  the  foolish  old  town. 
And  the  mesmeric  beauty  and  sweet  voice 
of  Sophie  Stang  had  contributed  to  the 
success  of  the  first  night  performance. 
The  critics  were  at  that  moment  scribbling 
the  fact  in  order  to  feed  the  machines  of 
morning  dailies.  They  were  not  saying 
much  about  "E  in  alt,"  nor  were  they  al- 
luding to  supernal  adagios  and  cosmic 
tones  to  grace  an  angelic  choir.  They 


DRUMSTICKS.  11 

were  announcing,  simply  enough,  that  lit- 
tle Sophie  Stang,  a  London  music  hall 
singer  within  the  five  years,  had  made  a 
success  of  a  small  role  in  a  new  operatic 
skit,  the  score  of  which  was  good,  very 
good,  and  the  book  of  which  was  bad, 
very  bad — if  one  asks  for  the  truth  always. 
And  the  town  hugged  its  sides  as  it  whis- 
tled the  airs  of  "  The  Golden  Bubble,"  and 
the  dozen  or  so  friends  of  Miss  Stang  were 
making  of  her  small,  narrow-fronted 
house  a  sort  of  temple,  the  air  of  which 
swooned  with  the  breath  of  the  purple  and 
white  floral  tokens  which  were  heaped 
mightily  within  it. 

And  upon  the  first  stair  landing  of  that 
house,  which  had  been  rented  for  the  sea- 
son, the  small  daughter  of  Sophie  Stang 
awaited  anxiously  some  much  desired,  if 
undesirable,  marrons  glacee — an  inno- 
cent child — herself  more  desirable  than 
desired. 

With  kindly  deference  Poole  gallantly 
presented  the  sweets  the  little  one,  run- 
ning lightly  up  the  stairs  to  do  so.  He 
found  himself  quietly  interested.  An 


12  DRUMSTICKS. 

hour  before  he  had  been  very  much  bored, 
but  he  now  promised  himself  some  amuse- 
ment. He  settled  himself  upon  the  upper 
stair  close  beside  his  small  companion, 
who,  already  seated,  was  balancing  the 
plate  with  difficulty  upon  her  knees  as  she 
began  to  eat  her  coveted  marrons.  Sud- 
denly she  looked  up. 

"  You  didn't  tell  Sophie  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not  ! "  asserted  Poole,  warm- 
ly. "  Didn't  I  promise  I  would  not  ?" 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't.  She  would  have 
scolded  Joy." 

"  May  I  ask — who  is  Joy  ?" 

"  Joy's  a  nice  old  person.  She  sleeps 
in  my  room  and  cares  for  me.  She  came 
over  with  us  when  we  came.  I've  known 
her  longest  of  any  one  except  Sophie." 

"  Sophie  !  Is  not  Sophie  your  mamma?" 

"  Of  course  she  is !"  with  a  puzzled 
glance  at  him. 

"  Then  why  do  you  call  her  Sophie  ? 
Why  not  call  her  '  Mamma,'  as  other  little 
girls  call  their  mothers  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid  I'm  not  like 
other  little  girls  !"  said  the  child,  looking 


DEITMSTICKS.  13 

at  him  closely  and  toying  with  a  chestnut. 
The  smile  left  her  lips,  and  the  puzzled 
look  in  her  eyes  became  intensified. 

The  man  sat  staring  at  her,  silent,  his 
hands  planted  upon  his  knees.  Here  was 
a  situation.  This  child  was  not  at  all 
what  one  would  have  expected  of  the 
child  of  Sophie.  Or  was  it,  perhaps,  that 
Sophie  was  not  what  one  would  have  ex- 
pected of  the  mother  of  such  a  child  ? 

ff  Aren't  you  a  bit  lonely,  sometimes  ?" 
he  asked  of  her,  suddenly. 

"  I  don't  understand  I"  said  she,  with 
raised  brows.  She  sighed.  Then,  attract- 
ed by  the  marrons  again,  she  began  to 
munch  them,  rolling  her  eyes  like  a  bliss- 
ful kitten. 

"I  come  down  here  at  night;  that's 
fun,  you  know,"  she  added,  presently. 
"  Riggs  brings  me  things.  But  I  knew  he 
was  too  busy  to-night.  I  could  hear  the 
corks  pop.  I  wake  up  when  I  hear  Sophie 
come  home  in  her  carriage.  There's  such 
a  noise  always  !  Before  that  everything 
is  so  awful  quiet.  They  all  laugh  down 


14  DRUMSTICKS. 

here.  Joy  never  laughs.  So  I  come  down 
and  listen/* 

"  And  no  one  knows  but  Riggs  ?"  Poole 
knew  who  Riggs  was. 

"No.  You  see,  I  creep,  creep,  like  a 
mouse.  I  play  I'm  a  mouse.  Then,  when 
I  get  here,  and  see  Riggs  in  the  hall,  I 
scratch  with  my  fingers — so."  She  gently 
rasped  the  balusters  with  her  tiny  nails. 
"And  then  he  brings  me  sweets.  And 
he  never  tells  Sophie.  Then  I  sit  here, 
like  a  mouse,  and  nibble,  and  listen,  until 
I  get  cold  and  tired  ;  then  I  go  back  to 
bed,  and  there  is  old  Joy  asleep.  She 
never  knows.  Are  you  afraid  of  a 
mouse  ?" 

"  No.  But  I  don't  like  them.  I  like 
you.  How  could  I  help  that  ?" 

His  gray  eyes  were  rather  small  and 
pale,  but  there  was  a  pleasant  light  in 
them  which  the  child  fancied.  They  had 
heavy  lids  and  there  were  lines  about 
them,  but  on  the  whole  she  decided  that 
they  were  not  ugly  eyes.  His  rather  wide 
mouth  had  a  slow  smile. 

"Fm  glad,"  replied  the  child,  hushing 


DRUMSTICKS.  15 

her  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper.  "  I 
like  you,  too." 

"  That  is  very  nice.  Why  should  yon  ?" 

"  Because  you're  good." 

"  Am  I  ?"  And  the  man  seemed  first 
amused  and  then  saddened.  And  his 
tones  grew  quite  tender  as  he  said  :  "  But 
you  ought  to  be  asleep,  small  woman  !" 

"I  was.  But  I  dreamed.  I  always 
dream.  I  hate  to  dream." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  dream  so  many  things  that 
aren't  so.  And  then  it  is  worse  when  I 
wake  up."  The  little  face  was  very  sober. 

"  What  things  ?"  He  caressed  her  short 
locks. 

"  Oh,  that  I'm  like  other  little  girls — 
that  I've  a  papa.  Will  you  never  laugh  if 
I  ask  you  a  question  ?" 

' '  Never  !"  promised  Poole,  earnestly. 

"  Well,  have  all  these  other  little  girls 
papas  ?" 

Poole  whistled  a  strain  of  "  The  Golden 
Bubble,"  softly,  and  drew  a  long  breath 
before  he  answered  her  question  with 
another. 


16  DKUMSTTCKS. 

<<  Why  do  you  ask  that  ?" 

"  Because  I  heard  so.  And  I  wonder 
about  it." 

The  cheek  nearest  Poole  became  sud- 
denly plump  with  the  fulness  of  a  marron. 
With  enforced  deliberation  she  proceeded  : 

"  One  day  in  the  park — you  know  I  go 
every  day  to  the  park — one  day  in  the 
park  I  liked  a  little  girl,  and  she  liked 
me.  But  her  nurse  knew  Joy,  and  she 
put  her  head  up,  so,  and  pulled  the  little 
girl  away  by  her  arm.  She  said,  'You 
mustn't  play  with  her — she  hasn't  any 
papa !'  And  she  laughed,  and  Joy  was 
just  as  mad.  I  never  saw  her  so  mad. 
The  little  girl's  name  was  Fanny.  Her 
maid  called  her  so.  Do  you  like  that 
name  ?" 

"  It  is  a  good  name  enough.  But  what 
is  yours  ? 

"  I  don't  believe  I  ever  had  any  real  name. 
But  they  call  me— most  always — Drum- 
sticks." 

It  was  the  name  which  Poole  had  heard 
the  child's  mother  use  once  or  twice,  and 
which  for  some  unaccountable  reason  he 


DRUMSTICKS.  17 

had  been  unable  to  recall.  The  situation 
was  becoming  more  interesting.  There 
was  so  much  of  incongruity  between  this 
friendly  little  child  with  the  innocent 
eyes,  her  forlorn  young  life  hidden  away  a 
secret  of  the  fourth  floor  ;  and  the  mother 
of  the  child,  whose  mocking  voice  he  could 
hear  as  he  sat  indulging  himself  in  his 
queer  tete-a-tete.  With  the  mother  he 
felt  himself  something  of  a  saint.  "With 
the  child  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  but 
a  man — and  a  bad  one.  He  smiled  as  he 
tried  to  explain  this  to  himself,  and  the 
child  seeing  his  cheerfulness  thought  it 
was  mirth  inspired  by  her  odd  name,  of 
which  she  was  always  much  ashamed. 

"  "What  a  name  !  "  he  said,  absently,  at 
length.  "  Why  do  they  call  such  a  small 
and  very  sweet  child  by  such  a  long  and 
very  ugly  name  ?  " 

"That  was  what  Riggs  asked  Joy — 
when  we  first  came."  And  the  child's 
eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  en- 
chantment of  his  careless  flattery. 

"  What  did  Joy  say  ?" 

"  She  said  " — and  the  child  enunciated 


18  DRUMSTICKS. 

each  word  carefully  and  solemnly,  as  if  long 
committed  to  memory  and  often  studied 
in  search  of  a  meaning — "  she  said,  that 
she  guessed  it  was  while  any  one  would  like 
a  wing  or  a  bit  of  the  white  meat,  that  no- 
body wanted — drumsticks — the  legs  of  the 
chicken,  you  know." 

There  was  more  than  a  suggestion  of 
tearful  pride  in  the  voice  now,  and  Poole 
looked  gravely  away  from  her  as  she  con- 
tinued, half  shutting  his  eyes  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  arm  as  if  to  enfold  her  within 
its  circle.  He  restrained  himself,  how- 
ever, amused  to  find  that  he  was  afraid 
of  offending  by  offering  sympathy  which 
had  not  as  yet  been  asked.  Drumsticks 
was  not  a  young  person  with  whom  one 
might  take  liberties  carelessly. 

"  You  see,  I  was  named  on  Christmas 
night.  Joy  says  I  was  brought  to  the 
table  for  the  first  time  then,  and  when 
they  named  me — oh,  I  don't  remember  all 
of  it.  It's  too  long.  But  I  remember 
what  Joy  told  Riggs.  I  went  off  by  my- 
self and  got  Miss  Gray  Blanket  (Poole 
afterwards  made  the  acquaintance  of  this 


DRUMSTICKS.  19 

friend  of  the  loneliest  child  he  ever  knew), 
and  we  thought  about  it  for  a  long  while." 

Poole  watched  her  from  the  corners  of 
his  eyes.  She  had  forgotten  the  remain- 
ing marrons,  and  was  speaking  with  the 
composure  of  a  sad  woman  of  the  world. 

"  I  guess  it's  true.  Nobody  wants  me. 
Sophie  doesn't,  and  Joy  doesn't — often. 
They  all  say  'Run  away,  Drumsticks!' 
They've  said  that  most  often  of  anything 
they've  ever  said  to  me — 'Run  away, 
Drumsticks  I ' '  She  looked  at  him  very 
anxiously. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  like  a  little 
girl  with  such  a  name  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  could.  On  second  thought, 
I  like  the  name  very  much.  It's  so  odd, 
don't  you  know  !  And  there's  only  one 
Drumsticks.  And  I'm  sure  she's  an  aw- 
fully jolly  sort." 

The  child  clasped  her  hands  and  held 
them  out  to  her  new  friend,  while  she 
flashed  upon  him  a  very  radiant  face.  As 
the  sceptre  was  extended  he  made  bold  to 
touch  her  little  dark  head  with  his  kiss. 


20  DRUMSTICKS. 

In  a  second  her  arms  were  about  his 
neck,  her  lips  at  his  ear  : 

"  Kiss  me  — would  you  mind  ?  —  just 
once  more  ;  no  one  ever,  ever  kisses  me." 

And  this  time  the  kiss  became  quite  a 
solemn  affair — almost  a  sacrament — a  seal 
to  a  compact — one  never  to  be  forgotten 
by  Poole.  There  are  memories  of  kisses 
and  kisses  to  a  man  dreaming  over  his 
pipe  along  in  his  forties.  And  none  are 
recalled  more  tenderly  than  those  ex- 
changed with  a  pure  little  maiden  of  very 
few  summers.  And  the  worse  a  man  is 
morally,  the  more  prone  he  is  to  dwell 
upon  such  recollections. 

John  Adzit  Poole  was  twenty-seven 
years  old  at  the  time  of  the  happenings 
related  in  this  story.  But  he  lived  to  be 
old  enough  to  care  for  memories.  And 
among  others  he  often  saw  himself  sitting 
in  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  staircase 
with  a  very  small  grave  maiden  by  his 
side.  Almost  he  could  recall  the  sound 
of  that  airy  mockery  in  the  tones  of 
the  mother  as  he  heard  it  from  the  supper 
room  below,  amid  a  chorus  of  male  voices. 


DRUMSTICKS.  21 

And  when  he  did  so  the  pain  of  it  and 
the  shame  of  it  grew  great,  and  he  needed 
the  other  memory  of  a  child's  holy  kiss 
to  give  him  back  again  his  manhood's 
self-respect. 

"Who  are  your  companions  ?  Who 
does  Drumsticks  play  with  ? "  he  asked, 
stroking  her  head  gently,  and  by  this  time 
absolutely  lost  in  amazement  at  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  found  himself.  Poole 
had  never  liked  children. 

"  Oh  !  I  play  with  Miss  Gray  Blanket, 
and  I  play  with  Fanny." 

"  Fanny  ?    The  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Yes.  After  it's  dark,  you  know,  I 
play  with  her.  Then  I  talk  to  her.  She 
never  answers.  But  I  play  she's  so  tired 
she  can't.  Of  course,  I  can't  play  that 
when  it  is  light.  For  then  I  could  see 
that  she  was  not  there.  But  in  the  dark 
she  might  be." 

"Exactly,"  responded  Poole,  abstract- 
edly. He  was  thinking  that  many  men 
and  women  indulge  in  the  same  game. 
Sometimes  with  their  faith  in  each  other ; 
more  often,  though,  with  their  creeds. 


22  DRUMSTICKS. 

"  So  I  say  every  night :  '  Good-night, 
Fanny ! '  and  then  I  say  softly  to  my 
blanket  :  '  She's  asleep  !  Don't  wake  her 
up  ! '  And  we  both  lie  very  still,  until 
the  first  thing  I  know — why,  I  don't 
know  anything  I"  Drumsticks  laughed 
merrily,  and,  snuggling  close  to  Poole, 
seemed  to  anticipate  somewhat  passing 
that  night  upon  the  stairs. 

He  was  thinking  that  she  ought  to  be 
in  bed,  and  wondering  how  best  to  sug- 
gest the  subject  without  any  appearance 
of  haste. 

"  Do  you  think  Sophie  is  pretty  ? " 
The  question  seemed  to  explode  in  his 
ear.  He  had  thought  Sophie  extremely 
beautiful — and  been  sorry  for  it.  His 
eyes  suddenly  became  mere  expressionless 
slits,  outlined  by  his  short  black  lashes. 

"  Very/'  said  he  briefly.  "  But  you 
must  go  to  bed  now." 

"  I  will."  She  arose  obediently,  placing 
the  plate  and  remaining  marrons  upon  the 
upper  stair. 

"Shall  I  see  you  again?"  she  asked 
wistfully. 


DRUMSTICKS.  23 

"  I  think  so — of  course. " 

"  People  change  so  !  You  see  the  same 
people  a  few  days — or  only  once — I  mean 
I  see  them  over  the  balustrades  when  Fm  in 
the  hall  here  looking  down.  And  then 
you  never,  never  see  them  any  more. 
Always  new  people — and  new  places. 
I've  seen  you  heaps  of  times  when  I've 
been  here  watching.  Would  you  mind  — 
would  you  be  mad — if  I  told  you  what 
I've  always,  always  called  you  ? ' 

They  were  both  standing  now,  Poole 
shaking  out  his  trouser-legs  and  stretch- 
ing his  arms.  He  was  tired  and  glad  to 
end  it.  He  looked  down  upon  her  slim 
person,  her  face  grown  rosy  during  the 
half-hour,  reminding  him  of  a  small 
round  apple  stuck  upon  a  willow  switch. 
Her  head,  although  so  small,  impressed 
one  as  being  too  heavy  for  her  slender 
swaying  body. 

"May  I  whisper  ?    You  won't  be  mad  f  " 

He  stooped  laughingly. 

"  I  call  you,  I  have  always  called  you — 
quite  to  myself,  you  know — no  one  knew 


24  DKUMSTICKS. 

— and  it  has  been  such  a  comfort ! "    Her 
lips  were  against  his  ear. 

"  You  came  so  often,  you  know — " 
"  Yes,  yes  !     What  was  it — my  name, 
which  you  gave  me  ?  " 

"  I  called  you  my  Play -papa  ! " 
Poole  started  away  from  her,  flushing 
an  angry  red.  The  servants !  Had  the 
child  been  taught  ?  A  glance  at  her  face 
dispelled  the  idea.  Yet  dropping  the  for- 
mer tenderness  of  tone,  he  kissed  her 
coldly,  pulled  her  pretty  white  ear,  and 
told  her  indifferently  to  run  away  up  to 
bed.  Turning,  he  leisurely  descended  the 
stairs,  looking  at  his  watch  as  he  did  so. 

Drumsticks  had  flown  away  into  the 
darkness,  yet  just  as  Poole  replaced  his 
watch  in  his  vest  pocket  he  heard  a  stifled 
but  unmistakable  sound.  Drumsticks  was 
evidently  weeping,  guilty  of  an  offence 
which  she  would  never  comprehend. 

"The  little  devil!"  murmured  Poole 
to  himself.  Then  he  whipped  about,  and, 
running  up  three  steps  at  a  time,  came 
upon  her  half-way  up  the  second  flight. 


DRUMSTICKS.  25 

There  was  no  light  in  the  third  and  fourth 
stories  of  the  house. 

Lifting  her  in  his  arms,  her  wet  cheek 
against  his,  he  carried  her  slowly  the  rest 
of  her  journey. 

"  Drumsticks,  see  here  ! "  he  whispered, 
out  of  breath  and  panting,  although  her 
weight  was  slight.  "  Call  me  Play-papa 
if  you  like.  But  prove  that  girls  can  keep 
secrets  as  well  as  boys !  And  don't  tell 
any  one — not  even  Fanny  ! " 

The  relief  from  her  misery  was  so  sud- 
den that  Drumsticks  administered  an  im- 
passioned hug  which  exhibited  unexpected 
strength.  As  she  slipped  from  his  arms 
just  outside  a  door  upon  the  fourth  floor 
of  the  house,  and  from  which  the  light  of 
a  night  lamp  shone,  her  loose  night  robe 
drew  tightly  across  her  childish  knees, 
which,  having  recently  lost  their  infantile 
roundness,  were  assuming  the  character- 
istic angularity  of  her  seven  years. 

"  Aren't  feet  ugly  ?"  she  asked  of  him, 
smilingly,  through  damp  lashes,  and  re- 
garding her  own  with  critical  attention. 

"  But  good-night— " 


26  DRUMSTICKS. 

And  while  well  upon  his  way  down  the 
third  flight  a  fervent,  floating  whisper 
reached  him — a  mere  shadow  of  a  voice  : 

"  Good-night,  good-night,  Play-papa  ! " 


PART  I. 

CHAPTER  II. 
BEING  AN  INTERPOLATION. 


"  If  I  could  dwell 

Where  Israfel 
Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 

He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 
A  mortal  melody." 

To  make  a  story,  two  men  and  a  woman 
are  necessary,  or  one  man  and  two  women. 
The  first  is  a  comedy,  the  second  a  tragedy. 
And  when  a  child  or  so  is  included  in  the 
dramatis  persona  the  whole  thing  becomes 
still  more  complicated. 

John  Adzit  1'oole  at  twenty-seven  was  a 
young  man  of  fair  family,  a  moderate  in- 
come, the  best  of  reputations,  and  good 
intentions. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  in  which  the 
happenings  of  this  small  tale  occurred — in 
fact,  up  to  the  third  day  of  the  June  of 
that  year — he  had  the  one  woman  in  his 


28  DRUMSTICKS. 

life  which  the  law  allows  a  man,  she  being, 
as  you  will  at  once  take  it,  his  wife.  Up 
to  that  time,  then,  we  had  not  the  ma- 
terial for  a  story.  But  Poole  was  happy  in 
a  decent,  sober  way,  which  never  is  known 
to  be  the  case  after  the  story  commences. 
And  so  was  Charlotte,  his  good  and  true 
wife.  And  so  also,  for  aught  we  know, 
was  young  Poole,  their  infant  son  and 
heir,  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  experience  ap- 
pertaining to  his  extreme  youth. 

But  upon  the  third  day  of  June  the  sec- 
ond woman  had  made  her  appearance. 
With  her  came  the  tragedy,  upon  which 
Poole's  family,  income,  reputation,  and 
even  good  intentions  seemed  to  confer  the 
gigantic  proportions  of  crime.  An  out- 
and-out  roue  sins  so  constantly  that  those 
sins  seem  to  dwindle  in  the  eyes  of  the 
observer,  until  if  he  struggles  madly  to  sin 
a  great  sin  he  seems  but  to  have  commit- 
ted an  indiscretion.  Poole,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  always  been  a  most  exemplary 
young  man.  And  when  after  years  of 
correct  living  he  fell,  his  soul  was  stag- 
gered by  the  monstrous  proportions  of  the 


DRUMSTICKS.  29 

thing.  One  may  as  well  state  that  his  good 
intentions  might  have  saved  him  if  he  had 
not  had,  at  the  same  time,  that  well-de- 
veloped sixth  sense,  which  is  an  insane 
love  of  beauty,  and  which  is,  no  doubt, 
but  a  refinement  of  our  sense  of  utility,  as 
Byron  would  have  us  believe,  and  he  ought 
to  know. 

There  is  a  something  of  pleasure  which 
a  fine  swimmer  feels  [if  only  Poole  had 
never  learned  to  swim  !]  which  is  abso- 
lutely unknown  to  the  timid.  The  latter 
is  constantly  repeating  to  himself,  "  Dare 
I  ?  "  And  his  mind  deals  extensively  with 
distance,  depth,  tide,  undertow,  current, 
and  other  well-forgotten  matters.  He 
knows  nothing  of  that  exquisite  remote- 
ness from  self-consciousness  experienced 
by  the  swimmer,  who  is  so  far  amphibious 
as  to  become  indifferent  to  such  considera- 
tions. 

To  such  an  one  the  things  the  other 
fears  are  but  words  caught  in  the  hollow 
of  the  wave-cup,  and  flung  to  him  from 
bathers  at  the  white  surf -edge.  He  fon- 
dles the  water,  and  is  treated  in  return  so 


30  DEUMSTICKS. 

benignly  that  he  comes  to  believe  himself 
its  master.  He  lies  upon  the  rocking 
waves,  and  dreams  awake  such  dreams  as 
never  come  011  shore.  Effort  is  not.  Ease 
is.  And  he  is  the  lover  whose  mistress  is 
the  translucent  greenery  of  wild  waste 
waters.  Poole  was  such  a  swimmer. 

The  first  of  June  of  the  year  of  which 
we  write,  Poole  pere  went  to  Atlantic  City 
with  his  wife,  who  was  a  bit  run  down, 
and  who  had  never  seemed  quite  to  regain 
the  vitality  which  she  had  so  generously 
presented  to  Poole  fils.  That  infant  was 
left  in  town  with  his  estimable  grand- 
mother, who  was  assisted  in  the  function 
of  his  entertainment  by  a  very  grand  and 
important  nurse.  Poole  was  very  glad  to 
get  away  from  the  three  last  mentioned 
personages.  They .  had,  between  them, 
contrived  to  make  him  feel  very  small  for 
some  time,  the  baby  and  the  nurse  having 
appeared  simultaneously  about  six  months 
before.  Each  morning  his  wife,  the  good 
Charlotte,  awaited  anxiously  at  the  hotel 
the  appearance  of  a  wire  which  usually 
condensed  the  anxiety  of  twenty-four 


DKUMSTICKS.  31 

hours  to  a  certainty  that  all  was  well  with    ' 
Poole  junior. 

The  morning  of  the  momentous  third 
of  June,  Charlotte  was  doing  just  this 
thing.  She  was  sitting  with  clasped  hands 
bracing  her  nerves  for  the  worst.  Each 
day  it  was  the  same,  the  young  mother 
fully  anticipating  an  evil  which  had  not 
materialized,  and  which  has  not,  as  yet, 
done  so. 

And  Poole — was  lying,  with  that  insolent 
assurance  which  even  nature  respects,  upon 
the  smooth  glass  of  the  rollers  which 
further  in  shore  were  attacking  the  bathers 
in  a  formidable  surf. 

He  had  few  things  to  think  about. 
He  was  wishing  that  he  had  more  money 
— a  thought  he  owned  in  common  with  all 
men.  He  was  wishing  that  the  boy  Ernest 
— his  first-born — had  looked  just  a  bit 
less  like  his  estimable  grandmother,  Mrs. 
Twombly-Applegate.  "What  the  devil  did 
the  gods  mean  by  making  of  his  son  an  ex- 
ample of  heredity  ?  For  his  wife's  mother, 
Mrs.  Twombly-Applegate,  was  the  one 
person  in  all  the  world  whom  genial  Jack 


32  DRUMSTICKS. 

Poole  honestly  disliked.  And  it  got  onto 
his  nerves  to  see  his  heir  look  at  him  with 
a  Twombly-Applegate  stare. 

And  then — Charlotte. 

She  had  asked  him,  not  an  hour  ago,  if 
he  loved  her  no  longer.  Why  did  women 
ask  questions  like  that  ?  And  he  found 
that  she  had  put  an  idea  into  his  head. 
Had  he  changed  ? 

Now  there  is  a  certain  infidelity  of 
thought  present  in  the  mind  of  the  most 
faithful  husband,  which  if  realized  by  the 
wife  would  occasion  her  anguish.  It  is 
possible  for  the  male  animal  to  be  faith- 
ful in  point  of  fact,  but  the  height  of 
fidelity  of  fancy  has  never  yet  been  scaled 
by  him.  Only  a  woman  of  sensitive  intui- 
tions grasps  the  situation,  however.  That 
such  is  the  case,  is  a  matter  of  congratula- 
tion. And  so,  a  man  is  often  mentally 
faithless  without  himself  knowing  it.  A 
clever  wife  can  impose  upon  her  husband 
the  belief  that  she  is  the  one  woman  of 
all  the  world  to  him,  when  in  sad  cynicism 
amounting  to  amusement  she  sees  his 
mental  lapses. 


DRUMSTICKS.  33 

In  this,  the  danger  of  a  habit  of  analysis  j 
lies.     To  look  at  things  on  the  surface,  to 
accept  every-day  events  in  every- day  man- 
ner, to  live  in  the  major  and  to  avoid  the 
minor,  is  the  wise  course.     There  is  danger 
in  going  back  of  the  returns,  for  only  a 
god  can  do  so  fully.     Poole  was  "  differ- 
ent/' but  he  had  not  imagined  that  he 
was  changed  until  Charlotte  had  bedewed 
her  pillow  with  tears  and  announced  the 
fact  with  lamentation.     He  was  changed 
because  he  had  had  a  bad  six  months  of  it. 
Given  the  environments  which  beset  the 
young  couple  before  the  babe  came — and 
the    nurse — and  the    grandmother,    and 
Poole  would  have  been  the  same  Poole,  al- 
though there  had  always  been  more  of 
contentment  than  ecstasy  in  his  love  for 
Charlotte.     And  so  there  was  nothing  to 
do  about  it.     He  was  a  bad  husband  who 
had  not  kept  on  doing  what  he  had  vowed 
he  would  do,  viz.:  love  ever.     And  how 
could  a  man  be  so  foolish  as  to  vow  such  a 
thing  in  the  first  place,  Poole  wondered. 
And  could  he  be  made  to  "love  ever?" 
and  could  it  be  done  in  the  face  of   a 


34  DRUMSTICKS. 

squalling  infant  (young  Poole  never  cried 
except  when  suffering  from  colic),  and  an 
experienced  nurse,  not  to  speak  of  a  Mrs. 
Twombly-Applegate  ? 

Poole  concluded  not. 

"  Heigh-oh  !"  he  said  at  length,  turn- 
ing over  upon  his  stomach  and  striking 
out  lazily.  "At  any  rate — they  can't 
bother  a  fellow  out  here  ! " 

"I  should  think  not/'  remarked  a  voice 
placidly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ! "  exclaimed  Poole, 
quite  as  if  be  bad  trod  upon  a  woman's 
gown  in  a  drawing-room,  and  staring  very 
hard  at  a  face  whose  chin  was  cutting  the 
water  bravely,  close  at  his  side. 

"  For  what  ?  Because  I  took  your 
head  for  a  barrel  bobbing  about  in  the 
water  ?  What  a  big  head  it  is,  to  be  sure  ! 
And  then — after  I  saw  you  were  no  bar- 
rel, but  a  man,  I  came  on  still.  I  thought 
you  might  require  assistance."  There 
was  a  challenge  in  the  mockery  of  the 
voice  which  would  never  have  been  ac- 
cepted if  the  face  at  which  Poole  gazed 
had  been  less  beautiful.  But  beautiful  it 


DRUMSTICKS.  35 

was,  and  thus  are  the  sons  of  men  un- 
done. 

Suddenly,  the  woman  turned  upon  her 
back,  rising  and  falling  upon  the  green 
Atlantic  as  composedly  as  if  in  a  steamer 
chair  upon  the  deck  of  a  liner.  "Without 
a  word,  yet  hardly  knowing  what  else  to 
do,  Poole  remained  beside  her.  She  closed 
her  eyes  peacefully.  She  had  the  face  of 
an  angel  upon  a  stone  tomb.  But  Poole 
found  no  trouble  in  deciding  that  she  was 
not  fashioned  of  stone,  being  equally  as- 
sured that  she  was  no  angel.  Her  arms 
were  over  her  head.  They  matched  her 
face.  Her  hands  were  clasped  beneath 
her  head.  Her  bathing  dress  was  cut  in 
the  French  fashion,  was  of  thin  silk,  and 
was,  naturally,  very  wet,  and  consequent- 
ly clinging. 

The  costume  was  old,  its  material  faded, 
hinting  much  familiarity  with  salt  water, 
and  just  at  the  shoulder  there  was  a  small 
rent.  As  the  unknown's  eyes  were  closed, 
Poole  felt  there  could  be  no  indiscretion 
in  decorously  observing  it.  And  the  wo- 
man's form  was  of  the  divinest. 


36  DRUMSTICKS. 

"  My  name  is  Sophie  Stang.  "What  is 
yours  ?"  the  beautiful  lips  murmured. 

"  Morley  —  ah  —  George  Morley ! "  re- 
sponded Poole  without  an  instant's  hesita- 
tion. So  easily  do  we  fall  in  the  manner 
of  evil. 

Immediately  the  lips  with  their  deeply 
tucked  in  corners  unbent  in  a  heavenly 
smile.  There  was  a  gurgle  of  laughter 
and  she  murmured  again  : 

"Ah — quite  so — my  honest  gentle- 
man ! " 

Poole  considered.  Here  was  a  woman 
whose  feet  and  arms  were  naked,  the  re- 
mainder of  her  very  beautiful  person  be- 
ing veiled  only  in  a  thin,  faded  silk  bath- 
ing costume,  which  was  audacious  to 
the  limit  of  decency,  and  the  woman 
talked  through  lips  virginal  as  to  purity 
of  curve,  to  a  strange  man — himself— 
whom  she  met  for  the  first  time  in  the 
water. 

"I  am  tired,  my  fair  friend,"  said  he, 
coolly,  with  perhaps  a  suggestion  of  dis- 
gust in  tone.  "  I  think  I'll  say  good 
morning  and  go  in.  I'll  not  insult  so 


DEUMSTICKS.  37 

splendid  a  swimmer  by  any  offer  of  help." 

So  much  for  his  good  intentions. 

If  he  had  only  left  her  there  without 
another  look,  there  might  have  been  no 
story  after  all.  But  alas  !  The  woman 
did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  and  when 
she  moved  her  lips  it  could  not  have  been 
her  intention  to  answer  his  farewell  in 
any  way,  for  she  did  not  open  them  to 
speak,  but  to  sing. 

Alas  and  alas  for  the  mischief  that 
embryo  sixth  sense  is  capable  of  bringing 
about !  Develop  the  idea  of  utility  into 
an  insane  love  of  beauty  and  add  a  mor- 
bid susceptibility  to  the  power  of  music  ! 
Where  are  good  intentions  then  ?  What 
becomes  of  them  ?  I  declare  unto  you 
that  Poole  forgot  he  had  ever  owned  any. 

Sophie  Stang  sang  softly  an  air  which 
was  afterward  presented  to  New  York 
in  the  second  act  of  "The  Golden 
Bubble." 

"  Pardon  all  the  faults  of  me 
For  the  love  of  long  ago — 
Good-bye." 

And  Poole  waited,  staring,  drinking  in 


38  DRUMSTICKS. 

the  unearthly  sweetness  of  what  was 
rather  a  thin  voice.  But  the  lips  were  so 
beautiful  : 

"  Not  a  word  for  me, 
Not  a  look  or  kiss — 
Good-bye  !" 

The  voice  warbled  on,  and  Poole  still 
lingered. 

Then,  even  as  he  waited  like  a  stupid 
fish,  she  lay  again  silent,  at  rest,  with 
closed  eyes.  And  just  as  he  was  drawing 
one  long,  deep  breath,  he  saw  again  a 
smile  tucked  into  the  corners  of  her  per- 
fect mouth,  and  there  was  a  twang  of 
mockery  in  it,  and  it  stung  him  to  recog- 
nize that  she  was  aware  of  his  presence 
and  that  he  had  hung  about  her  unable 
to  leave  the  spot  after  a  most  pompous 
farewell.  With  a  last  long  look  of  un- 
willing admiration,  he  left  her,  trying 
indeed  to  sneak  through  the  tell-tale 
splashing  water  before  the  woman  should 
open  her  fine  eyes. 

As  he  struck  out  for  the  shore  and  his 
virtue  with  a  powerful  regular  stroke,  he 
mused  to  himself : 


DRUMSTICKS.  39 

"What  will  Charlotte  say  ?" 
The  fact  of  the  matter  was  this  :    Char- 
lotte never  commented  upon  the  matter 

at  all.     For  Poole  never  told  her  of  it. 
***** 

Upon  the  fifteenth  day  of  June  Poole 
had  crossed  upon  the  Thirty-fourth  Street 
Ferry  with  his  wife,  his  child,  the  child's 
grandmother,  and  a  heterogeneous  collec- 
tion of  maid  servants.  It  was  the  day  set 
apart  for  the  family  flitting  from  the 
small  town  house  on  Fifty-first  Street  to 
their  other  more  commodious  home  down 
upon  Long  Island.  Within  the  limits  of 
a  certain  village  upon  the  south  shore 
Charlotte  owned  a  cottage  which  had  been 
left  her  by  her  father,  and  to  which  each 
summer  of  their  five  years  of  married  life 
she  had  returned.  Poole  had  always  been 
down  of  a  Sunday,  and  the  life  there  was 
dearer  to  Charlotte  than  that  in  town. 
There,  for  the  first  time,  she  now  took 
their  son.  Poole  promised  to  come  down 
often.  And  he  believed  that  he  intended 
to  keep  his  promise.  Perhaps  he  did. 
But  nothing  had  been  quite  right  between 


40  DKUAf  STICKS. 

Charlotte  and  him  since  the  day  she  had 
asked  him  if  lie  had  not  changed.  Char- 
lotte's eyes  were  upon  him,  questioning, 
begging,  as  a  woman's  pure  eyes  can  do. 
To  the  last  they  implored  him,  but  Mrs. 
Twombly-Applegate  was  close  at  hand, 
and  just  as  the  train  moved  out  of  the 
station  young  Poole  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
wept,  and  Charlotte  turned  to  him,  more 
mother,  in  the  moment  of  parting,  than 
wife. 

Poole  returned  alone,  crossing  the  ferry 
very  much  wrapped  up  in  a  mood.  When 
the  boat  ran  into  the  slip  a  hansom  caught 
his  eye.  The  day  was  hot,  the  afternoon 
spoiled  for  business,  and  it  was  too  early  to 
find  a  friend  at  his  club.  Hailing  the  han- 
som, he  ordered  the  cabman  to  kill  an  hour 
for  him  in  the  shady  drives  of  Central 
Park.  Leaning  well  forward  on  his  el- 
bows, a  cigarette  in  his  teeth,  he  contin- 
ued his  mood.  It  was  hot,  with  a  hint  of 
mugginess,  and  the  town  seemed  filled 
with  odors,  more  or  less  oppressing. 
Poole  grew  more  and  more  disgusted  with 
his  thoughts,  which  dwelt  chiefly  upon  the 


DRUMSTICKS.  41 

discomforts  of  dining  in  one  place  and 
sleeping  in  another.  Dining  !  It  wasn't 
the  dining  as  much  as  it  was  the  break- 
fasting which  he  dreaded.  Why  could 
not  cook  have  been  left  ?  No  !  She  must 
go  down  on  the  Island  with  the  rest,  and 
he,  who  was  of  no  consequence  because  of 
being  merely  the  head  of  the  family — he 
must  go  each  night  to  a  musty  closed-up 
house  to  sleep,  and  tumble  out,  to  break- 
fast, as  best  he  might,  at  club  or  hotel  or 
restaurant.  He  was  of  no  consequence  to 
any  one  since  his  son  had  come  upon  the 
scene.  And  he  became  so  savage  in  thought 
that  he  looked  his  thought,  and  a  woman, 
passing,  smiled  to  see  him. 

It  was  Sophie  Stang,  as  luck  would 
have  it.  Her  face  flashed  luminously  from 
a  carriage  window,  and  Poole  saw  it.  In 
a  second  more  they  had  passed  each  other. 

There  is  a  ripe  redness  of  the  rose, 
haunting,  intoxicating  with  fulness  and 
perfume.  And  a  rose  like  that  seduces 
with  the  passion  born  of  the  mind  and 
senses.  Such  a  rose  was  Sophie.  And 
there  are  other  roses — small,  sweet  bios- 


42  DRUMSTICKS. 

soms  often  carelessly  thrown  aside,  yet 
winning  from  us  an  emotion  of  the  heart. 
Of  such  was  Charlotte. 

Yet  Poole  was  still  ignorant  of  what 
was  already  a  fact. 

There  were  two  women  in  his  life — and 
had  been  since  the  third  of  the  month. 

Ah,  the  beauty  of  the  first  rose  !  Good- 
ness knows,  beauty  can  sting  like  a  whip, 
and  get  into  the  blood  like  veritable  wine! 

And  the  truth  was  this:  not  once  since 
the  third  of  June  had  John  Poole  shut  his 
eyes  without  a  demon  presenting  itself 
dream-wise.  And  the  demon  ever  took 
on  female  shape,  and  floated  upon  waters 
blue,  and  had  for  a  mouth  a  line  of  curved 
sweetness,  into  each  corner  of  which  was 
tucked  a  smile. 


PART  I. 

CHAPTER  III. 
WHICH  THE  SIGNER  REPENTS. 


"  This  is  the  tale  I  have  to  tell. 
Show  the  fellow  the  way  to  hell." 

AND  it  was  upon  those  lips  that  Poolers 
thought  dwelt  as  he  slowly  descended  the 
stairs  after  leaving  the  child.  But  the 
wonder  of  it  and  the  amazement  all 
lay  in  this  :  They  had  now  no  charm  for 
him.  He  could  not  recall  just  what  their 
charm  had  been.  Charm — of  that  sort — 
has  a  way  of  evaporating.  And  stranger 
than  all,  it  was  to  Charlotte  now  that  his 
imagination  turned.  It  was  her  face 
which  the  women  whom  he  met  upon  the 
street  all  wore.  If  June  had  turned  his 
moral  sense  topsy-turvy,  September  was 
setting  it  upon  its  legs  again. 

"  Three  months  !  I — am — a — chump ! " 
and  at  each  word  Poole  brought  himself 
down  another  stair. 

He  paused  at  the  entrance  of  a  small 


44  DRUMSTICKS. 

room  on  the  second  floor,  listening  to  the 
voices  below  stairs.  Sophie  was  singing 
an  air  which  she  had  caused  to  have  inter- 
polated in  the  score  of  "  The  Golden  Bub- 
ble. "  The  words  were  those  to  which  he 
had  listened  upon  that  morning  in  June. 
She  was  singing  slowly,  and  with  a  languor 
born  of  wine.  For  Sophie  took  too  much 
wine. 

What  were  his  thoughts  as  he  listened  ? 
What  are  the  thoughts  of  any  man  when 
disenchantment  has  come  and  is  griping 
his  soul  and  wringing  it  dry  before  it 
tosses  it  over  to  the  next  comer — re- 
morso  ? 

And  the  words  of  the  song  : 

"  Pardon  all  the  faults  of  me 
For  the  love  of  long  ago — 
(iood-bye." 

Would  to  God  he  might  go  to  Charlotte 
and  implore  her  thus  !  He  had  never  ex- 
pected to  put  a  construction — to  find  in 
the  words  a  meaning — which  he  would 
long  to  utilize  in  such  a  fashion. 

The  last   word  was  carried   to  a  high 


DRUMSTICKS.  45 

note,  perilously  sweet,  and  held  there,  and 
played  with,  and  finally  flung  slowly  away 
into  a  silence.  It  was  very  pretty.  She 
sang  it  better  than  when  before  the  foot- 
lights earlier  in  the  night.  And  amid  the 
stir  of  the  departures  which  followed  and 
the  thanks  of  some  half-dozen  men,  he 
heard  the  loud,  boyish  voice  of  Alexander 
Brand  asking  for  him.  But  he  never 
stirred,  merely  cursing  him  inwardly  be- 
cause of  the  fact  that  through  his  kind 
offices  he  had  been  made  a  guest  of  the 
house  where  he  now  stood.  He  never  saw 
him  that  he  did  not  long  to  insult  him. 
So  unreasonable  is  man  when  he  has  been 
given  exactly  what  he  has  most  craved. 

He  walked  into  the  little  room  at  the 
door  of  which  he  had  been  standing,  de- 
termined to  see  Sophie  for  some  minutes 
before  his  departure.  He  wanted  to  ask 
her  some  questions  about  the  child  which 
had  not  occurred  to  him  before.  He  sank 
upon  a  low,  fur-covered  couch,  throwing 
his  head  back  and  staring  at  a  ceiling 
which  displayed  elaborately  in  fresco  the 
Apotheosis  of  Narcissus.  The  house, 


46  DRUMSTICKS. 

which  had  been  rented  for  the  season  by 
Sophie,  had  once  belonged  to  a  very  grand 
family.  Sophie  always  alluded  to  that 
ceiling  as  "  nymphs  on  toast."  Venus 
was  simply  indicated  amid  the  clouds  of 
a  .background.  There  floated  through 
Poolers  mind  a  vague  wish  that  in  life — 
in  his  life — she  had  been  thus  unob- 
trusively insinuated.  To  his  fancy,  the 
misty  face  took  on  the  lines  of  that  be- 
longing to  Sophie.  As  for  Echo,  he 
could  not  see  her  face.  And  then,  again, 
his  thought  travelled  to  Charlotte.  It  oc- 
curred to  Poole  that  there  were  worse  en- 
tanglements in  real  life  than  any  of  the 
mythological  complications  with  which  he 
was  familiar.  He  groaned,  and  muttered 
a  few  words,  which  we  may  be  pardoned 
for  supposing  to  have  been  : 

"  Lord  be  merciful  to  me — a  fool!" 
After  that  he  was  silent,  but  his  silence 
was  punctuated  by  the  swish  of  sweeping 
garments  as  Sophie  came  slowly  upstairs, 
still  humming  : 

"  Pardon  all  the  faults  of  me." 
A  moment,  and  one  of  the  most  beauti- 


DRUMSTICKS.  47 

ful  women  in  all  the  town  stood  leaning 
against  the  casement  of  the  door  looking 
at  him.  "Without  rising,  still  lounging,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  he  returned  her 
glance.  Their  story,  and  the  story  of  the 
last  three  months,  lay  in  the  look.  She 
seemed  very  weary,  tranquilly  devoid  of 
surprise  at  finding  him  there,  and  possibly 
a  bit  bored.  Her  charming  eyes  were  still 
disfigured  by  the  rouge  upon  their  lids. 
Gradually  a  something  petulant  grew  in 
their  expression.  She  yawned,  and  threw 
the  flowers  she  carried  behind  a  chair,  but 
Poole's  quick  eye  caught  sight  of  a  card 
which  was  attached  to  them.  They  were 
not  his  flowers,  yet  of  the  many  bouquets 
which  she  had  had  showered  upon  her  that 
night  she  had  apparently  singled  these  out 
by  her  favor.  She  advanced  slowly  and 
stood  before  Poole. 

"Well?  "said  she. 

"Well?  "echoed  he. 

"You  didn't  take  supper  with  me. 
Were  you  not  hungry  ?  " 

"  No.     I  preferred  seeing  you  after  the 


48  DEUMSTICKS. 

others  left,  and — I  have  been  talking  with 
the  child." 

"  Drumsticks?"  Sophie  was  too  tired  to 
question  him  in  regard  to  their  meeting 
at  that  hour  of  the  night — or  morning. 

"  "Why  that  ridiculous  name  ?  " 

Sophie  pouted  and  made  no  answer. 
She  was  studying  him  in  the  mirror, 
scorning  her  own  wonderful  image  to  do 
so. 

"  How  came  you  to  allow  a  child  to  be 
so  named  ?  "  he  insisted. 

"  Why  should  I  answer  ?  Jack,  we 
have  been  a  good  deal  together  for  three 
months.  The  first  you  occupied  in 
rhapsodies.  The  second  with  long  silences, 
and  the  third  and  last  with  criticisms.  To 
them  you  seem  pleased  to  add  questions — 
interrogations  as  to  a  past  with  which 
you  can  have  no  concern.  I'm  tired  !  " 

"  So  am  I.  But  surely  you  will  answer 
a  few  questions  about  the  child — not  your- 
self ?  And  tell  me  that  name — why — ': 

•'  Well,  then  you'll  be  angry  !  No  ? 
She  was  not  named  at  all  for  a  year.  I  was 
doing  the  Columbine  at — never  mind — in 


DRUMSTICKS.  49 

London.  The  Pierrot  was  her  father. 
He  named  her  on  Christmas  night  at 
supper — after  the  play.  A  few  of  the 
company  were  supping  together  at  my 
lodgings.  He  had  been  drinking.  In 
serving  the  fowl  we  had  all  refused  what  you 
Americans  call  the  drumsticks.  It  seemed 
to  strike  him  then  that  we  should  call  the 
baby '  Drumsticks/  It  was  merely  a  joke — 
or  intended  as  one.  He  took  the  child  and 
went  through  a  mock  christening,  wetting 
her  forehead  with  wine,  and  calling  her 
Drumsticks.  And  somehow  or  other  the 
name  has  stuck  to  her.  I  suppose  because 
it  fits.  It  was  true.  He  didn't  want  her,  nor 
I,  nor  any  one.  There  !  Now  you  know !  " 
Sophie  mused,  with  an  odd  smile  curv- 
ing her  lips.  Memory  was  representing 
once  more  to  her  a  midnight  scene  in  a 
cheap  London  lodging  house.  She  saw 
again  an  ill-set  supper  table  whose  piece 
de  resistance  was  a  tough  and  leathery 
fowl.  She  saw  herself — still  in  the  costume 
of  a  Columbine — a  Sophie  ignorant  of  a 
future  which  was  to  the  Sophie  of  to-day 
a  very  glittering  and  satisfactory  present. 


50  DRUMSTICKS. 

And  opposite  her  at  table  she  saw  once 
more  the  kindly,  whimsical  Pierrot,  his 
face  still  streaked  with  the  white  paint  of 
the  pantomime,  and  still  oddly  enough 
framed  in  a  huge  ruff.  There  were  three 
others  at  the  table.  And  all  had  been 
more  or  less  tipsy.  The  child  had  been 
asleep  in  a  large  hamper,  half  filled  with 
old  properties.  And  Pierrot  had  dragged 
it  to  light  in  order  to  christen  it — his  in- 
nocent little  daughter — in  the  cheap  wine, 
and  with  drunken  mirth,  amid  the  rough 
jests  and  hilarity  of  those  player-folk. 

"Ah — the  child  of  a  Columbine  and 
a  Pierrot  ! "  A  quickly  fading  jealousy 
was  in  the  tone,  and  also  disgust,  fatigue. 
"What  was — his  other  name?" 

"Why  ask?  Why  revive  ancient  his- 
tory? And  what  is  it  to  you,  anyway?" 
Sophie  was  clearly  puzzled.  She  had 
spoken  to  Poole  several  times  about  the 
child,  and  her  remarks  had  met  with  si- 
lence upon  his  part.  As  for  the  fact  that 
he  had  not  seen  the  girl  before,  it  was 
largely  due  to  chance.  For  the  rest,  Joy 
had  her  instructions,  and  the  child  had 


DRUMSTICKS.  51 

been  kept  in  the  fonrth  story  of  the  house, 
with  the  exception  of  the  hours  which  she 
passed  each  day  in  taking  the  air.  And 
daughters  are  awkward  to  women  like 
Sophie. 

"Is  he  dead?"  asked  Poole,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Dead  !     Yes  ;  long  ago." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her — 
the  child?" 

"I  don't  know.  Why  should  I  do  any- 
thing ?  She's  well  enough  off  as  she  is. 
Perhaps — some  day — if  she  only  devel- 
ops voice — I  may  find  her  some  place  on 
the  stage.  But  I'm  afraid  there  is  no 
voice  ! "  Sophie  felt  distinctly  cross. 

"Thank  God!" 

"You  are  polite!"  Sophie  felt  that  she 
was  insulted,  but  she  was  too  sleepy  to 
resent  with  energy.  "  Has  she  been  com- 
plaining?" she  added  suddenly  and  sharply 
after  thinking  a  moment. 

"  She  did  not  complain." 

"But  why  this  sudden  interest,  may 
I  ask?" 

"  I  have  seen  her/'  he  answered,  briefly. 


52  DRUMSTICKS. 

"  And  you  are  much  impressed  ?" 

"  I  liked  the  little  thing." 

"  I  suppose  she  reminded  you  of  your 
own." 

"  That  will  do!"  he  exclaimed,  roughly. 

"  Jack  ! "  She  fell  upon  her  knees  be- 
side him. 

"Sophie!" 

Her  long,  polished,  bare  arms  encircled 
him.  Her  head,  with  its  glossy  blue-black 
hair,  was  against  his  heart,  but  its  beat 
did  not  quicken.  Through  her  laces  he 
could  feel  hers  throb.  It  was  a  fickle 
heart.  It  had  beat  for  a  Pierrot  once, 
and  others.  It  had  since  beat  for  him. 
Yesterday  for  Pierrot,  to-day  for  him- 
self, and  to-morrow — his  eye  travelled  to 
the  flowers  huddled  behind  the  chair,  and 
noted  once  more  the  corner  of  the  card 
they  all  but  concealed.  There  is  always  a 
to-morrow  for  a  woman  whose  lips  are  as 
graciously  curved  and  who  has  not  for- 
gotten how  to  jmile.  Her  shoulders  rose 
and  fell,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  weep- 
ing. He  looked  admiringly  at  those  per- 
fect shoulders,  with  their  opalescent  lights 


DBUMSTICKS.  53 

gleaming  from  the  shadow  of  laces  as  frail 
as  their  wearer.  There  was  a  bluish  down 
where  the  hair  melted  into  the  nape  of  the 
neck.  The  edge  of  her  ear  shone  as  deli- 
cately white  as  a  camellia  petal  and  was 
just  as  bloodless. 

"  Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 

But  she  was  made  like  a  soft,  sweet  woman. 

*    *    *    Lilith— skirts  of  Eden. 

With  her  was  hell  and  with  Eve  was  heaven." 

As  Poole  stared  at  her  thus  he  became 
conscious  that  his  hands  were  still  within 
his  pockets.  He  slowly  drew  them  out 
and  placed  them  one  on  each  of  her  shoul- 
ders. There  was  no  passion  in  their 
touch,  only  kindness  and  pity.  And  it 
was  but  three  months  since  their  first 
meeting  in  the  blue  waters  of  the  Atlantic. 
She  was  crying,  and  after  all  she  was,  or 
had  been,  a  woman.  But  he  said  nothing 
to  her,  only  sat  there  with  a  hand  on  either 
shoulder,  and  thought  dully  that  he  liked 
her  better  when  she  laughed.  Such  as  she 
had  no  business  with  tears. 

"  You  think  you  care  for  me  a  little 


54  DRUMSTICKS. 

still  ?  "  He  finally  broke  the  silence  with 
what  he  felt  to  be  a  silly  remark. 

"  Think!"  cried  Sophie,  with  tragic 
emphasis. 

"  Be  sensible,  can't  you  ?" 

"  I  know — I've  seen  it  coming!  You  in- 
tend throwing  me  over  ! " 

"Throw  you  over!  Fiddlesticks!"  It 
cheered  him  immensely  to  have  her  break 
the  ice  of  a  subject  which  had  gradually 
been  growing  thin.  "  Damn  the  past ! 
Three  months  !  What  are  they  ?  In  a 
year's  time  you'll  have  as  little  place  for 
me  in  your  memory  as  you  have  to-night 
for  Pierrot." 

"  I  ought  never  to  have  told  you  that!  " 
she  said,  moodily. 

"  But  the  child  ! " 

"  Plague  take  her  !  I  wish — "  She 
hesitated.  They  were  both  upon  their  feet 
now,  his  hands  still  upon  her  naked 
shoulders.  His  eyes  calculated  coolly 
the  magic  of  her  physical  charm.  It  was 
great,  yet  it  was  all  physical.  And  not 
one  spark  stirred  the  ice  of  that  glance. 

Her  loveliness  had  had  the  grace  to  en- 


DRUMSTICKS.  55 

thral.  Her  charm — such  as  it  was — had 
forged  gyves  upon  his  sense  which  it  was 
now  enabled  to  toss  aside.  The  tender 
flame  in  burning  had  melted  his  chains. 
He  was  cloyed  with  caresses,  and  aghast 
at  the  price  of  self-respect,  which  he  had 
paid  for  them.  He  felt  a  disgust  for  her, 
for,  to  his  mind,  she  embodied  his  weak- 
ness. He  had  been  a  chump — an  ass — a 
despicable  fool.  She  influenced  him  no 
longer.  He  was  free  to  look  upon  her  as 
upon  a  picture,  or  a  statue,  of  which 
every  line  was  an  enchantment.  She  was 
no  less  beautiful,  yet  with  only  a  whim- 
sical sadness,  such  as  one  bestows  upon 
all  last  things,  he  could  have  said  to  her 
then  that  good-bye  which  time  was  fetch- 
ing for  them  in  some  dim  to-morrow. 

Sophie's  faultless  face  !  Sophie's  faulty 
soul ! 

"  Little  sinner  " — he  swung  her  gently 
to  and  fro  by  her  shoulders.  "  What  did 
you  expect  ?  " 

Sophie  shook  herself  free  and  walked 
shivering  to  the  fireplace.  She  could 
have  a  chill  accompanied  with  a  rain  of 


56  DRUMSTICKS. 

tears  as  easily  as  she  could  laugh  all  of  a 
glow  ten  minutes  later.  Poole  watched 
her,  but  he  was  not  thinking  of  her. 

The  child  upstairs !  He  would  say  a 
word  for  it  before  he  left  the  house  that 
night.  There  might  be  that  thing — a 
soul — to  consider.  Charlotte  would  have 
thought  so,  and  to  return  to  clean  tilings, 
as  he  had  it  in  mind  to  do,  leaving  behind 
in  the  wreckage  of  the  summer's  storm  a 
little  weak  woman-child,  in  whose  eyes 
divine  innocence  dwelt,  seemed  to  Poole 
impossible.  He  must  try  to  do  something 
for  the  child,  and  then — 

He  might  go  out  of  that  house  to-night 
and  never  enter  it  again.  But  what  of 
the  child  upstairs,  the  helpless  sport  of 
the  tempest  of  a  mother's  sin  ?  Was  it 
Quixotic  to  hope  that  he  could  befriend 
her  ?  Might  it  not  count  in  his  favor  on 
the  day  when  all  was  judged  ?  And  he 
liked  the  child.  It  was  a  sweet  child,  and 
seemed — best  of  all — to  have  inherited 
nothing  of  its  mother.  If  she — Sophie — 
had  seemed  to  care  for  it,  all  would  have 
been  different.  Many  very  bad  women, 


DRUMSTICKS.  57 

he  had  heard,  cared  for  their  children — 
like  beasts.  But  Sophie  cared  nothing 
for  hers.  She  had  wished  it  dead  since 
the  hour  she  had  first  felt  the  mysterious 
throb  of  its  being. 

And  then  he  tried  to  explain  to  himself 
how  it  was  that  he  felt  such  a  consuming' 
interest  in  a  child  which  he  had  never 
seen  until  that  night,  and  for  whose 
mother  he  cared  less  than  nothing.  He 
brought  the  full  force  of  his  mind  to  the 
subject,  and  he  has  thought  intently  of  it 
many,  many  times  since  that  first  night. 
And  it  is  still — as  it  was  then — a  thing 
which  he  has  never  been  able  to  explain. 
He  has  given  it  up  long  ago.  But  it  was 
as  I  have  written.  That  part  of  this  little 
story  is  as  true  as — well  as — as  the  kindli- 
est, tenderest,  most  unselfish  interest  you, 
reader,  have  ever  taken  in  the  smallest, 
most  helpless  and  suffering  thing  of  which 
you  have  ever  known.  No  truer — but  as 
true  as  that. 

And  then  the  child  was  thin,  old,  wise, 
and  hungry  for  affection.  In  short — all 


58  DRUMSTICKS. 

things  which  a  little  female  child  of  seven 
years  ought  not  to  be. 

She  looked  as  if  she  ought  to  have  some 
one  of  her  own  who  would  be  foolish  over 
her.  Some  one  who  would  rock  her  to 
sleep  and  tell  her  fairy  tales. 

And  she  had — Sophie. 

And  then  Poole  thought  of  Charlotte. 
Ah,  some  women  were  made  to  lavish  love 
as  others  were  made  to  be  loved.  Some 
were  lovers — and  for  lovers.  And  others 
were — mothers.  And  it  was  a  good  thing 
for  the  children  that  all  this  was  so. 

"  She's  such  a  queer  little  creature  ! " 
broke  in  Sophie  suddenly  upon  his 
thoughts,  and  quite  as  if  his  had  influ- 
enced her  own.  "  She  has  such  ideas! 
Fancy  !  She  thinks  she  has  a  bird  in  her 
breast — her  heart,  you  know ;  she  clasps 
her  hands  upon  it  and  listens,  and  is 
always  asking  if  we,  too,  hear  the  lird. 
Fancy  \» 

"You  love  her? "  [A  question  fora 
mother  !] 

"  I  ?  Love  her  ?  Let  me  be  honest  3 
No.  She  never  has  seemed — my  own. 


DRUMSTICKS.  59 

Sometimes  I  think  she  is  not.  She  was 
put  out  to  nurse  soon  after  the  christening 
episode,  and  for  four  years  I  never  even 
saw  her.  He — Pierrot — used  to  go  and 
see  her.  I  believe  he  cared  something  for 
her,  in  a  way.  He  paid  her  board,  and  I 
paid  it — whichever  one  had  a  little  money, 
you  understand.  And  then  I  heard  that 
he  was  dead.  And  the  woman,  a  very 
decent  person,  wanted  to  keep  the  child  for 
her  own.  But  I  thought  I  might  regret 
giving  her  up.  I  often  wish  I  had  left  her 
with  that  woman.  Probably  it  would 
have  been  better. 

"Well — I  did  not/'  she  continued. 
"And  here  she  is.  Since  then  she  has 
been  left  to  old  Joy.  Who  is  Joy  ? 
Another  decent  person  ?  "  Sophie  smiled. 
"  I  always  employ  most  circumspect 
maids. " 

Poole  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  two 
o'clock.  He  felt  the  need  of  sleep  and 
time  to  think.  He  longed  more  and  more 
to  do  something  for  Drumsticks,  if  but  to 
change  her  name.  He  walked  to  the  door. 

"  I'll  see— I'll  see—  "    He  hesitated. 


60  DRUMSTICKS. 

Sophie  drew  near  him  with  such  a 
wealth  of  expression  in  her  lovely  eyes  as 
would  have  deceived  any  man  into  believ- 
ing her  loving  and  lovable.  But  she  was 
neither.  Poole  knew  it,  and  looked  at  her 
gravely. 

"So — it  is  over  ?"  she  faltered. 

"  What  did  you  expect  ?  You  knew  it 
must  end  ! " 

"But,  so  soon?" 

"Good-bye." 

"  Only— oh,  Jack  !  " 

"  Good-bye  ! "  A  cunning  gleamed  in 
Sophie's  eyes. 

«  But— the  child  ?  "  she  breathed  softly. 

Poole  hesitated,  bit  his  lip,  looked  at 
her  keenly,  and  then  answered  : 

"Fll  run  in  to-morrow  afternoon  and 
talk  over  some  plan  for  her."  Then  he 
went  away. 

Sophie  laughed. 


PART  I. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

LNTRODUCIXG    THE    WOMAU    WHO   WAS   A 
WIFE,    BUT,  MOST   OF   ALL,    A   MOTHER. 


"A  sweetness  clings  to  all  her  flesh, 

Like  early  grasses  steeped  in  dew  ; 
And  in  her  silky  hair  the  fresh, 
Faint  odors  that  from  Heaven  she  drew."" 

CHARLOTTE  was  the  pure  woman. 

Such  a  calm  brow,  such  a  meek  lip,  such 
kindness  of  glance  shone  in  her  dear  face 
as  made  the  old  turn  to  look  and  little 
children  laugh  from  sheer  happiness. 
Charlotte  was  an  embodied  smile  —  the 
smile  which  would  cheer  a  man,  but  never 
tempt  him.  The  Vast  Secret  of  the  Eter- 
nal Mother  dwelt  in  her  heart,  and  to  see 
her  with  her  baby  studying  the  manifes- 
tations of  the  Man  as  revealed  in  him  was 
to  see  the  Madonna.  She  was  akin  to 
nature,  as  such  a  woman  would  be.  She 
loved  the  mists,  the  silvery  satins  of  wind- 
ing roads,  the  reeds  tilting  against  the 


62  DRUMSTICKS. 

breezes  of  the  salt  marsh  lands,  the  mes- 
sages of  nightfall  and  daybreak,  the  hoarse 
whispering  of  the  sea,  but  a  mile  distant 
from  the  old  house  at  Seascrest.  But,  above 
all,  she  loved  her  garden.  She  loved  the 
shady  walks,  the  sunny  stretches  of  velvet 
lawn,  the  decorous,  prim,  old-fashioned 
flower  beds,  and  the  hum  and  buzz  of 
blundering  bees  and  insects. 

There  was  not  one  particle  of  sentimen- 
tality about  Charlotte,  nor  anything  which 
was  not  heartily  sensible  and  completely 
normal.  She  was  happy,  as  all  such  sim- 
ple people  are,  because  she  lived  so  close 
to  Nature  as  to  partake  of  her  health. 
And  she  was  lovable,  because  she  was  lov- 
ing, and  honest,  and  true,  in  the  kind  of 
way  that  little  children  know  and  recog- 
nize at  once.  And  in  the  kind  of  way  a 
sick  soul  knows  and  longs  for  with  a  long- 
ing unutterable.  In  short,  she  was  un- 
like the  usual  young  woman  who  plays  a 
part  in  a  story.  She  made  you  think  of 
brisk,  waving  grain,  or  a  breath  of  sum- 
mer morning  in  green  woods,  and  that  in- 


DRUMSTICKS.  63 

effable  odor  of  pure  mother  earth  after 
warm  rains. 

Charlotte's  eyes  were  small,  pale  brown, 
and  very  kindly,  her  nose  neat,  and  in 
harmony  with  the  rest  of  her -face,  which 
is  the  proper  thing  for  a  nose  to  be.  Her 
month  was  fresh-looking,  healthy,  pleas- 
ing in  a  rich  laugh,  which  showed  all  of 
her  clean,  white,  rather  square  teeth. 
She  laughed  easily,  and  with  a  merry 
gurgle  to  end  with,  which  seemed  to  draw 
out  the  merriment  of  her  thought,  and  to 
linger  over  it. 

It  is  only  the  unsullied  soul  who  can  be 
in  touch  with  Nature  as  was  Charlotte, 
for  sin  makes  us  blind  and  deaf  to  the 
simple  delights  of  the  fragrant  earth — de- 
lights which  cost  nothing,  and  have  a 
power  to  bless. 

All  through  the  summer  Poole  had 
avoided  Seascrest  upon  this  plea  and  that. 
He  was  too  tired  for  the  trip,  he  was  too 
busy,  and  he  declared  that  business  would 
go  to  the  ever  ready  bow-wows  if  he 
neglected  it.  And  his  visits  had  become 
more  and  more  a  rare  thing.  Charlotte 


64  DRUMSTICKS. 

felt  a  vague  unrest,  as  one  feels  the  com- 
ing of  a  storm.  There  was  an  ominous 
lull,  broken  only  by  the  fitful  flashes  of 
Mrs.  Applegate's  tongue.  That  her  in- 
dignation was  natural  and  righteous  we 
cannot  deny.  As  for  Charlotte,  she  was 
too  proud  to  say  anything.  She  would 
wait  and — trust.  And  soon,  very  soon,  it 
would  be  all  right.  And  that  horrid 
business  which  was  keeping  her  Jack  in 
town  so  much  through  all  the  long,  hot 
days  would  arrange  itself  at  last,  as  busi- 
ness always  did. 

And  so  it  had  limped  away  lamely, 
this  summer,  which  September  stared  at 
with  hob,  baked  eyeballs. 

But  Mrs.  Applegate  had  her  suspicions. 
She  even  knew  men.  However,  when  one 
knows  more  than  the  people  about  them, 
and  one  is  unable  to  conceal  that  fact,  one 
only  gets  one's  self  disliked.  And  Mrs. 
Applegate,  knowing  this,  among  other 
things,  bode  her  wee.  But  there  was  an 
occasional  spit,  as  of  water  upon  fire, 
which  Charlotte  overlooked.  No  other 


DRUMSTICKS.  65 

woman  was  ever  seen  who  conld  overlook 
as  much  as  Charlotte. 

It  was  a  thing  to  make  a  broken  heart 
heal  to  see  Charlotte  of  a  summer  morn- 
ing, intoxicated  with  the  dew  of  her  own 
life,  anxiously  leaning  over  her  roses  near 
the  garden  path,  her  young  child  in  her 
arms,  stretching  his  baby  fingers  to  the 
gay  darlings  of  the  flower  bed,  and  se- 
cure in  mother-love. 

To  Charlotte  the  death  of  a  flower  was 
a  pain,  a  sting;  a  blight  upon  a  blos- 
som, a  regret.  And  her  delight  in  the 
luxurious  unfolding  of  a  promising  bud 
was  a  thing  belonging  to  her  own  pure 
heart. 

Charlotte,  in  crisp,  morning  muslin, 
with  a  bit  of  pink  about  it,  matching  the 
health  which  had  returned  to  her  dear 
cheeks  and  the  bald  head  of  her  child, 
was  like  an  eternal  morning.  And  to  see 
her  thus,  as  Mrs.  Applegate  saw  her, 
knowing  that  the  young  husband  who 
should  have  shared  the  picture  cared  not 
for  it,  or  at  least  failed  to  avail  himself 
of  an  opportunity  of  admiring  it,  was  to 


66      .  DRUMSTICKS. 

a  mother — Mrs.  Applegate  was  a  mother 
and  a  good  one — like  swallowing  a  toad. 
It  wouldn't  swallow. 

And  yet  Poole  had  some  few  times 
watched  his  wife  and  son  thus  from  the 
breakfast  room  window  on  those  rare 
mornings  which  had  chanced  to  find  him 
at  Seascrest.  And  he  had  watched  them 
lately  with  a  mingling  of  pleasure  and 
pain — pleasure  at  the  picture  they  made, 
and  pain  at  his  own  isolation.  For  these 
people  were  far  apart,  sin  having  set  the 
feet  of  the  man  outside  of  any  garden 
of  pure  delight. 

Yet,  such  lives  as  that  of  Charlotte 
make  bridges  upon  which  less  holy  nat- 
ures may  at  last  cross  and  find  again  lost 
Eden,  and  heaven. 

There  was  little  color  in  the  lips  of 
Charlotte,  and  nothing  sensual  in  the 
radiance  of  her  soft  brown  eyes.  And 
Poole  often  owned  thoughts  which  were 
a  sacrilege  in  the  presence  of  her  splendid 
white  soul.  Such  thoughts  could  not 
live  long  in  the  atmosphere  which  she 
created.  If  she  had  been  with  him  at  the 


DRUMSTICKS.  67 

first  to  encourage  his  good  intentions ! 
Well,  she  was  not;  if  she  had  been — he 
was  clean  enough  to  have  preferred  white 
to  scarlet.  With  her,  and  about  her, 
gentle  deeds  flourished  like,  her  roses 
wherever  she  carried  her  smiles.  But 
Poole  had  been  separated  from  her  by  a 
deadly  trio :  "  Baby,  Applegate  and 
Company/'  And  he  was  very,  very  weak 
— in  a  word,  he  was  a  man. 

All  the  good  in  Poole  belonged—to  \ 
Charlotte.  But  it  seemed  that  there  had 
lurked  in  his  nature  a  good  deal  of  com- 
monplace evil.  He  loved  Charlotte — had 
always  loved  her — with  the  love  which 
her  personality  evoked.  That  there  was 
another  side  to  the  fellow  was  his  misfor- 
tune no  less  than  hers.  She  had  been  his 
star.  But  Thales  came  to  grief  while 
star  gazing.  And  Poole,  with  his  eyes 
upon  a  star,  had  walked  into  a  puddle. 
Now  his  boots  were  muddy.  And  that 
made  his  star  out  of  the  question. 

What  the  other  woman — what  Sophie — 
was  to  him  does  not  matter.  The  less  the 
pen  deals  with  her  the  more  ink  will  be 


68  DRUMSTICKS. 

saved  for  Drumsticks.  For,  after  all,  this 
is  intended  as  a  story  of  that  sweet  child. 

Poole,  Charlotte,  and  Sophie  have  to  do 
with  the  common  storm  which  is  whirled 
into  life  by  the  winds  Desire  and  Satiety. 
Such  storms  are  old  revolting  stories,  so 
complicated  with  motives,  pregnant  with 
heredity  and  circumstance,  that  a  humble 
pen  does  well  to  touch  upon  them  deli- 
cately, thus  evading  heavy  responsibili- 
ties. It  is  with  the  child  mine  would 
linger — a  small  reed  tossed  upon  mighty 
waters  —  Drumsticks  —  whom  nobody 
wanted,  whose  mother  was  a  Columbine, 
and  whose  father  was  a  Pierrot. 

And  yet,  how  tell  of  her  and  omit  the 
others  ? 

Ah  !  if,  when  you  cast  this  little  story 
aside,  you  will  but  regard  my  difficulty  in 
this  matter  with  charity  !  If  the  shad- 
ows of  the  picture  may  be  but  suggested 
in  Sophie !  If  the  pale  color  which 
touched  the  life  of  Drumsticks  shall  re- 
mind you  in  pitying  fashion  of  that  kind 
sinner — Poole  !  If  the  high  lights,  shin- 
ing to  touch  tenderly  her  pain,  recall  the 


DRUMSTICKS.  69 

gracious  womanliness  of  Charlotte  !  And 
if,  more  than  all,  you  shall  recall  with 
something  of  affection  a  small  female 
child,  who  was  called  Drumsticks  because 
"nobody  wanted  her,"  the  pen  will  not 
have  entirely  failed. 

The  day  following  the  night  which  wit- 
nessed the  meeting  of  the  man  of  the  story 
with  Drumsticks  was  a  heavy  one.  Poole 
staggered  under  it  until  it  was  time  to  call 
upon  Sophie,  as  he  had  promised.  Then 
he  despatched  her  a  hasty  begging  off,  and 
wired  Charlotte  to  expect  him. 

During  the  day  he  had  been  seized  with 
a  great  longing  to  see  and  be  with  Char- 
lotte. To  touch  her !  Was  there  not 
healing  in  her  presence  ? 

The  ferry,  the  ensuing  ride  by  train,  the 
jolt  to  the  house  after  reaching  Seascrest 
in  Charlotte's  ridiculously  high  English' 
cart,  the  gathering  gloom,  the  distant 
complaint  of  the  sea,  all  got  on  his  nerves, 
and  he  swore  softly  to  himself.  He  was 
afraid  to  whistle.  His  tune  might  take 
on  an  air  of  "The  Golden  Bubble"— 
"  Pardon  all  the  faults  of  ine." 


70  DKUMSTICKS. 

He  felt  that  lie  was  going  to  a  temple  to 
besmirch  the  altar  by  laying  upon  it  a 
copy  of  Baudelaire.  Ah  !  if  lie  could  only 
tell  Charlotte  all,  and  leave  it  to  her. 
Let  her  tell  him  at  once  if  he  had  better 
go  hang  himself.  If  he  told  her — what 
would  she  say  ?  How  would  she  look  ? 
He  entered  the  house  like  a  thief.  Al- 
though Charlotte  anticipated  his  arrival, 
the  everlasting  nursery  had  interfered  witli 
the  father's  welcome.  He  ground  his 
teeth  savagely  as  he  heard  the  elephantine 
Applegate  tread  overhead,  and  then  nearly 
fell  to  weeping  as  he  distinguished  Char- 
lotte's soft  singing,  and  recognized  a  bye- 
low.  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and 
waited  in  the  little  cottage  library. 

The  room  was  not  yet  lighted  for  the 
night,  but  upon  Charlotte's  little  bandy- 
legged writing  desk  a  candle  stood,  and 
its  saffron  gleam  fell  upon  a  photograph 
of  Poole,  which  he  had  given  her  in  college 
days,  while  love  was  young.  He  looked 
at  it  critically,  as  if  regarding  the  face  of 
an  entire  stranger. 

Had  he  ever  looked  like  that  ? 


DRUMSTICKS.  71 

"  I  ought  to  have  died  then,"  he  groaned 
to  himself,  with  a  twitching  of  the  lips, 
which  drew  his  mouth  into  the  dismal  sem- 
blance of  a  smile.  "Since  then  I've  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  serpent.  There 
was  no  slime  on  me  then  !  'Twouldn't 
make  a  bad  portrait  of  St.  John  ! — adding 
a  halo  ! "  And  he  sat  despising  himself. 

Finally  Charlotte  entered  the  room. 

"  You  here,  Jack  ! "    (Delight. ) 

"As  you  see/'    (Gloom.) 

Soft  robed,  purely  fragile,  colorless, 
and  sweet  as  the  Quaker  twilight  of  the 
evening,  Charlotte  made  him  welcome 
with  all  the  heart  dwelling  in  her  soft, 
white  bosom.  But  he,  poor  wretch,  felt 
it  was  all  for  the  Jack  she  thought  him  to 
be — the  St.  Jack — and  not  Jack  the  cur, 
which  he  knew  himself  to  be.  And  so  her 
warm  greeting  only  ground  his  spirit  to 
earth. 

He  tried  to  tell  her  all  that  night,  be- 
fore sleeping,  but  only  ended  in  groaning 
and  looking  so  white  that  Charlotte  flew 
for  the  hot  water  bag  and  insisted  upon 
symptoms  of  appendicitis  Alas,  he  wished 


DRUMSTICKS. 


s  it  had  been  as  she  feared  !  If  a  surgeon's 
>  knife  could  cut  away  evil  memories,  re- 
grets and  sin,  then  might  each  human  do 
a  little  private,  amateurish  hackling. 

"I'll  tell  her  in  the  morning,"  thought 
Poole,  and,  turning,  tried  to  sleep. 

That  night  all  the  casements  shook. 
The  mad  winds  came  up  from  the  sea  and 
toyed  with  the  little  cottage,  and  called 
fearful  threats  through  unwary  keyholes. 
The  chill  came  in  and  laid  weird  fingers 
upon  the  embers.  The  air  throbbed  with 
sounds.  These  things  are  bought  and 
sold  with  country  houses.  ,  • 

And  Poole  lay  sweating  in  remorseful 
terror,  dreading  the  telling  of  his  story, 
and  knowing  that  it  was  not  for  him,  as 
for  other  men,  to  go  about  grinning  over 
his  escapade,  and  to  kiss  first  a  Sophie  and 
then  a  Charlotte.  He  was  too  honest  a 
bad  man  for  that.  And  some  day,  if  not 
to-morrow,  he  must  tell  his  wife. 

Finally,  he  fell  into  a  fitful  sleep,  and, 
dreaming,  dreamed  that  he  stood  beside  a 
hideous  grave-digger,  who  was  laughing  as 
he  evaded  his — Poole's — inquiries  in  re- 


DRUMSTICKS.  73 

gard  to  the  grave  the  fellow  was  digging. 
Was  it  for  Sophie,  or  for  Charlotte  ?  He 
would  know  !  And  the  grave-digger 
would  give  no  answer,  only  laughing  more 
like  a  devil  than  ever.  And  Poole  began 
to  dread  with  a  mighty  dread  that  it  was 
the  grave  of  the  sweet  Charlotte.  And 
he  awakened  abruptly,  with  every  pulse 
bounding.  The  room  was  black — black 
with  the  darkness  of  the  hours  directly 
following  midnight.  He  listened,  but 
could  not  hear  the  gentle  breathing  for 
which  he  waited.  Softly,  he  raised  him- 
self upon  one  elbow  and  leaned  over  her 
pillow.  Something  dark  lay  there,  and 
his  hand  sought  carefully  for  the  silky 
head  and  quiet  cheek.  Yes ;  she  was 
there.  She  was  alive,  warm,  and  sleep- 
ing. 

And  he  must  rob  her  in  the  morning  of 
the  power  to  sleep  like  that ! 

She  would  suffer  less  if  he  killed  her 
now. 

And  John  Poole  fell  back  upon  his  pil- 
low and  wept  scalding,  bitter  tears — not  a 


74  DRUMSTICKS. 

woman's  easy  tears ;  but  a  man's  tears — 
salt  and  tainted. 

And  in  the  morning  he  left  for  town 
by  an  early  train,  and  without  a  con- 
fession. 


PAKT  I. 

CHAPTER  V. 
SHOWING   HOW   THE    SIGNER   POSED. 


"  Thou  little  maiden,  I  thank  thee  much  ; 

And  well  I  would  thou  should' st  pray  for  me  ; 
But  lam  a  sinful  man,  and  such 
As  ill  should  pray  for  thee." 

AKD  for  the  remainder  of  the  month 
Poole  found  one  set  of  excuses  to  keep 
well  away  from  Seascrest,  and  another 
which  gave  him  many  half-hours  with 
Drumsticks,  away  up  in  her  fourth  floor 
front. 

Perhaps  a  man  must  have  lost  all  of  his 
self-respect,  have  had  his  self-love  bitterly 
wounded,  and  then  have  been  loved  at 
first  sight  by  an  innocent  little  female 
child  "  because  he  was  good/'  to  under- 
stand just  what  comfort  the  society  of 
Drumsticks  was  to  John  Poole.  His  van- 
ity, or  what  there  was  left  of  it,  had  been 
tickled  by  her  preference,  as  vanity  always 
is  by  that  of  a  pure-souled  child,  or  even 
the  unsought  friendliness  of  a  dog.  Chil- 


76  DKUMSTICKS. 

dren  and  dogs  have  a  reputation  for  dis- 
cernment. 

And  so  if  he  saw  Sophie  less  it  was  be- 
cause he  saw  more  of  Drumsticks,  and  not 
that  he  remained  away  from  the  house. 
And  more  and  more  through  those  ebbing 
days  of  September  it  was  to  see  the  child 
that  he  came.  He  ran  in  during  the  morn- 
ing hours  on  his  way  down  town  to  his  office, 
and  found  time  for  an  hour  with  her  dur- 
ing the  early  twilights  before  Sophie  had  a 
chance  to  return  from  her  regular  after- 
noon drive.  And  the  attraction  between 
the  man  and  the  child  was  one  of  those  in- 
stinctive, marvellous,  genuine,  and  never- 
to-be-explained  things  which  can  hardly 
be  described. 

There  was  nothing  of  Sophie  in  Drum- 
sticks. 

If  Heredity  had  a  finger  in  the  matter, 
that  finger  had  traced  the  child's  person- 
ality directly  to  a  Columbine  and  a  Pier- 
rot. The  graceful  sweetness,  innocent 
frolic,  and  underlying  sadness  of  the  dear 
childish  pantomime  seemed  to  be  her  in- 
heritance. It  was  as  if  she  had  been  im- 


DRUMSTICKS.  77 

maculately  conceived  of  Christmas-tide 
by  a  genial  spirit  of  good  will.  And  it 
was  her  charm,  as  well  as  her  misfortune, 
that  she  loved  easily. 

The  memories  which  Poole  retained  of 
Drumsticks  are  largely  of  these  weeks. 

Daughter  of  a  harlot,  she  possessed  a 
tender,  graceful  wistfulness  for  all  that 
was  true  and  good.  Explain  it  who  can  ! 
Daughter  of  a  clown,  the  delicate,  frail 
tragedy  of  her  being  had  about  it  the 
fragrant  revelation  of  innocence.  Were  the 
mother  at  heart  the  light  of  love  she 
seemed — were  the  father  the  imp  of 
darkness — how  explain  the  elusive  grace 
of  that  childish  character  ? 

And  it  was  a  singular  fact  that  while 
the  thoughts  of  the  child's  loneliness  away 
up  in  the  dismal  fourth  floor,  amid  the 
gloomy  cheapness  of  the  house,  brought 
Poole  continually  within  the  circle  of 
Sophie's  spell,  his  mind  grew  to  be  more 
and  more  with  Charlotte.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  child  at  this  time  it  is  certain 
he  would  have  broken  entirely  with  Sophie. 

The  twilight  was  their  favorite  hour. 


78  DRUMSTICKS. 

After  a  day  of  wretchedness,  routine 
forcing  his  mind  to  fulfil  official  duties, 
with  the  feeling  that  his  misery  was  writ- 
ten upon  his  face,  unwilling  to  be  with 
Sophie,  unworthy  to  seek  Charlotte,  he 
found  a  strange  consolation  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  child.  There,  at  the  window 
of  that  fourth  floor  front  room,  they  would 
sit,  the  child's  round  head  fitting  itself  to 
the  hollow  between  his  cheek  and  shoul- 
der, watching  the  twilight  fade  and  the 
street  lamps  shine  out  beloAv  them.  They 
talked  much  confidingly,  trusting  also  to 
long  silences,  the  latter  pleasing  the  man 
best;  and  during  them,  when  his  thoughts 
wandered  hellward,  it  may  have  saved  him 
more  than  he  ever  knew  to  have  had  the 
feel  of  Drumsticks'  arm  about  his  neck. 
And  nothing  would  have  pained  him  more 
than  to  have  Drumsticks  know  that  he 
was  not  to  be  loved  "  because  he  was 
good." 

There,  before  the  trees  in  the  small  park 
opposite  became  entangled  in  the  dusk, 
they  gravely  discussed  them.  Drumsticks 
had  named  them,  and  they  always  spoke 


DRUMSTICKS.  79 

of  them,  calling  each  by  name  ana  weav- 
ing many  quaint  fancies  in  regard  to  them, 
quite  in  the  whimsical  manner  peculiar  to 
the  child.  The  season  was  late,  a  hazy 
warmth  still  pervading  the  earth,  and  the 
leaf  and  branch  of  her  friends  were  not  as 
yet  much  changed.  One,  an  elm,  was 
stripping  itself  of  its  greenery,  however. 
The  child  had  named  it  after  Sophie's 
manager,  a  person  whom  she  feared  and 
whom  Poole  disliked  for  his  coarse  pres- 
ence and  bulging,  frog-like  eyes.  And 
the  two — child  and  man — professed  them- 
selves delighted  with  the  havoc  a  first 
frost  had  played  with  his  namesake. 

"  See  !  see  !  he  is  losing  his  coat ! 
Goody!"  And  Drumsticks  clapped  her 
hands. 

"  But  Fanny  is  still,  oh,  so  pretty  \"  she 
added.  "  Fanny"  was  a  green  privet. 

A  dark  pine  had  been  made  a  namesake 
of  Poolers.  A  maple  was  called  "  Joy/' 
and  a  lilac  "  Sophie,"  because  it  was  grace- 
ful. And  Poole  himself  had  selected  a 
delicate  silver  birch,  scarce  as  high  as  the 


80  DRUMSTICKS. 

child's  head,  to  bear  the  name  of  Drum- 
sticks. 

"  Such  a  nice  little  tree  !  And  such  a 
horrid  name  ! "  said  she,  after  delibera- 
tion; "  but  I  like  it  to  be  so  near  the  dear 
pine ! "  It  was  a  slight,  swaying  thing, 
and  really  leaned  quite  as  if  for  protection 
toward  the  larger  full-grown  tree. 

' '  Just  as  I  do — to  my  Play-papa  ! "  she 
would  murmur,  affectionately,  clinging  to 
him  in  a  transport  of  gratitude. 

And  so  this  distracted,  guilty-minded 
man  lingered  with  his  small  friend,  each 
soothing  the  other's  sense  of  loneliness. 
The  room  in  which  they  sat  through  these 
hours  was  a  commonplace  one  with  two 
beds,  one  of  which,  the  smaller,  was  occu- 
pied by  the  child,  and  the  other  by  Toy. 
Upon  the  foot  of  that  belonging  to  Drum- 
sticks was  usually  thrown  a  blanket.  This 
blanket  was  of  fine  gray  wool,  with  an  ara- 
besque of  white  along  its  borders.  It  was 
worn  shabby  in  places,  but  was  still  ex- 
cessively soft  and  comforting  to  the  touch, 
and  was  a  part  of  Drumsticks'  earliest  re- 
membrance. To  its  ample  folds  she  had 


DRUMSTICKS.  81 

turned  when  too  young  to  talk,  a  dumb 
consoler  for  each  hurt  of  mind  and  body. 
It  was  associated  in  Joy's  mind  with  the 
episode  of  her  first  meeting  with  her  young 
charge. 

"  Tliat  is  what  you  are  here  for  ! " 
Sophie  had  said,  and  had  pointed  one 
taper  finger  to  a  heap  of  wool  upon  a 
hearth-rug. 

"  That"  turned  out,  upon  examination, 
to  be  a  small  child,  who  had  cried  herself 
to  sleep,  huddled  within  the  folds  of  a 
gray  blanket.  As  time  went  on  it  was 
found  impossible  to  divorce  the  child  from 
the  blanket.  If  mislaid,  the  London  lodg- 
ing house,  where  they  then  were,  was  filled 
with  infantile  shrieks. 

Drumsticks  no  longer  shrieked.  Her 
griefs  had  become  quieter,  if  no  less  bitter. 
But  the  blanket  still  existed,  a  consola- 
tion paramount. 

The  child  was  always  dressed  in  the 
height  of  fashion  at  this  period,  although 
her  immediate  environment  of  living 
rooms  was  so  plain.  This  elaborate  ward- 
robe was  the  only  thing  about  her  in 


82  DRUMSTICKS. 

which  Sophie  evinced  any  interest.  But 
the  fine  things  never  seemed  to  belong  to 
Drumsticks.  They  were  selected  with 
more  of  an  eye  to  picturesqueness  than  to 
any  exquisite  daintiness,  and  her  pale  lit- 
tle round  face  smiled  out  above  her  frip- 
peries in  a  remote  and  superior  way  which 
was  not  the  least  of  her  attractions.  As 
Poolers  eyes  rested  upon  her  grandeur,  his 
mind  reverted  to  the  plainly  wrought, 
fine,  hand-finished  raiment  which  he  had 
seen  Charlotte  select  for  their  son. 

One  afternoon,  about  four  or  five  of  the 
clock,  Poole  found  his  way  up  the  four 
flights  of  stairs  to  the  door  of  the  room. 
Drumsticks  stood  at  the  window,  her  face 
pressed  flat  against  the  pane,  while  from 
one  hand  trailed  the  gray  blanket,  telling 
Poole  the  story  of  some  grief,  or  a  battle 
royal  with  Joy. 

"  Miss  will?  " 

"No  I" 

"  Miss  likes  her  own  way  ! "  grumbled 
Joy. 

"  That's  one  of  my  nicest  faults  ! "  com- 


DRUMSTICKS.  83 

posedly  announced  the  child,  with  her  face 
still  against  the  pane. 

Whatever  the  point  may  have  been,  Joy 
did  not  care  to  press  it,  and  seeing  Poole, 
left  the  room  to  seek  more  congenial  as- 
sociates. 

Drumsticks  was  absorbed  in  her  window, 
one  hand  holding  the  blanket,  and  the 
other  pressed  tightly  against  her  heart. 
It  was  a  frequent  gesture  with  her.  There 
were  a  few  cobweb  clouds  trailing  across 
the  sunset,  suggesting  the  approach  of  a 
huge  black  spider,  who  should  shortly 
bring  darkness  after  him.  Pallid  lights 
quivered  on  the  edges  of  facades,  and  the 
crowds  in  the  street  below  seemed  shadows 
trooping  through  some  ravine.  The  street 
was  sulky,  unwilling  to  take  on  the  good 
humor  of  gas  jets.  And  Drumsticks 
waited  at  the  window,  her  young  soul 
soaking  itself  in  sensations  and  impres- 
sions which  it  did  not  understand. 

Her  ear  caught  Poole's  step  as  he  entered, 
and  she  ran  to  him  with  a  quick  change  of 
mood,  dropping  her  blanket,  and  forget- 
ting all  but  the  joy  of  his  arrival. 


84  DRUMSTICKS. 

' '  I  was  waiting  for  you — I  knew  you 
would  come,"  she  cried. 

"What  were  you  doing  while  you 
waited?"  asked  Poole carelessly, thinking  to 
hear  of  a  dispute  between  herself  and  Joy. 

"  Oh,  just  thinking — thinking  till  my 
thinks  were  sprained  ! " 

"Here  —  what's  this  hand  doing?" 
And  drawing  her  to  his  knee,  he  tried  to 
remove  the  hand  she  still  held  upon  her 
breast. 

"  There's  a  little  bird — sometimes  it  goes 
to  sleep — then  I  don't  feel  it.  But  when 
it  wakes  up  it  begins  to  hop  and  jump. 
Feel  it !  Put  your  ear  close — so  ! " 

Poole  pressed  his  ear  firmly  against  the 
tender  childish  breast,  as  he  had  so  often 
done  before.  Her  heart  was  beating 
rapidly,  and  with  a  harsh  sound.  Drum- 
sticks was  the  unfortunate  possessor  of  an 
emotional,  nervous  temperament,  and  the 
least  excitement  altered  its  action. 

"Is  it  all  right?"  she  asked,  puzzled 
by  the  thought  slie  saw  in  his  face. 

"  Why,  of  course,  small  person  !  It's  a 
bully  good  little  bird,  that ! " 


DRUMSTICKS.  85 

And  then  he  hugged  her,  and  took  her 
upon  his  knee,  and  they  had  much  conver- 
sation of  a  highly  important  nature  in  re- 
gard to  the  tooth  which  had  come  out  that 
day,  when  she  was  biting  an  apple.  Joy 
had  told  her  that  another  would  replace 
it.  This  she  was  inclined  to  doubt  until 
reassured  by  Poole. 

As  they  sat  they  heard  faint  sounds 
from  below  stairs,  suggesting  the  return 
of  Sophie  from  her  drive.  The  man  and 
child  sitting  together  in  the  dark  room 
listened  without  comment  to  the  voices. 
Poole  peered  at  his  watch,  leaning  to  the 
fading  window  square  as  he  did  so.  He 
found  that  his  hour  was  up.  He  must 
leave.  Drumsticks  clung  to  him  as  he 
passed  down  the  stairs.  Sophie  saw  them 
through  her  doorway  and  called  them  in. 
She  had  thrown  off  her  rich  dress,  and 
was  resting  herself  in  a  corsetless,  loose, 
white  neglige,  its  saffron  ribbons  being 
carelessly  untied,  exposing  her  neck  and 
breast.  Her  hair,  being  uncoiled,  fell  in 
a  disorderly  mass  upon  those  wonderful 


86  DRUMSTICKS. 

shoulders.     Drumsticks  would  never    be 
as  beautiful. 

The  child  regarded  her  gravely,  trou- 
bled and  uneasy  at  this  marked  disorder 
of  attire  in  Poole's  presence.  And  he 
was  no  less  embarrassed.  But  Sophie  was 
at  ease  and  inwardly  amused  as  she  saw 
that  he  was  afraid  she  might  forget  the 
child,  and  offend  by  an  offered  caress. 

She  busied  herself  arranging  a  new 
shade  upon  an  enormous  lamp  which  she 
had  caused  to  be  lighted.  It  was  com- 
posed of  countless  masks,  most  of  which 
had  opera  ball  histories,  and  all  of  which 
were  decorated  with  autographs.  Among 
them  were  monks  and  devils,  faces  gro- 
tesque, not  pleasing,  smiling  scarlet- 
lipped  satin  affairs,  and  others  were  bits 
of  velvet  with  slits  for  eyes,  and  frills  of 
black  and  white  lace.  The  rosy  light  shed 
by  the  silken  lining  of  the  shade  shone 
through  the  apertures  of  oblique  eye-holes, 
and  the  cavities  curved  into  exaggerated 
smiles  representing  the  mouths  of  the 
masks,  tinging  Sophie's  perfectly 
chiselled  features  with  pearly  tints. 


DRUMSTICKS.  87 

She  touched  the  masks  lightly  with  the 
tips  of  her  fingers,  giving  with  retrospec- 
tive smiles  some  small  incident  relative  to 
her  possession  of  each.  Poole  found  it 
impossible  to  resist  admiring  the  picture 
the  woman  made,  although  his  whole 
nature  revolted  at  the  license  of  her  re- 
marks, her  dress,  and  her  indifference  to 
the  presence  of  her  little  daughter.  She, 
catching  his  expression  and  laughing  at 
it,  suddenly  assumed  the  pose  of  e<  The 
Woman  of  Masks/'  a  picture  for  which 
she  had  stood  as  a  model  in  Paris,  and 
murmured  audaciously  : 

"  Je  t'aime  !    Je  t'aime  !  " 

He  did  not  answer.  But  Drumsticks 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  said 
quaintly  : 

"  It's  French  !  and  I  haven't  got  as  far 
as  that!" 

Sophie  burst  into  a  peal  of  musical, 
mocking  laughter  at  the  double  construc- 
tion which  she  immediately  placed  upon 
the  child's  utterance.  The  child's  inno- 
cent words,  followed  by  the  mother's  laugh, 
jarred  upon  Poole  hideously.  He  felt 


88  DRUMSTICKS. 

wretchedly  unhappy.  Bidding  Drum- 
sticks run  away  upstairs  again,%he  watched 
the  handsomely  dressed  child  clamber 
up  the  long  flight.  He  preferred  the 
dreary  emptiness  and  darkness  of  the 
fourth  floor  for  her  to  the  moral  atmos- 
phere where  they  were.  He  did  not  re- 
turn to  Sophie's  room,  but  she  followed 
him  to  the  hall,  negligently  wrapping  her- 
self in  her  theatre  wrap. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  another  fool 
over  a  child  ? ''  she  said  jealously.  "  Why 
don't  you  adopt  her  yourself  ?  Heaven 
knows,  I'm  willing  !  " 

He  paused  abruptly,  his  hand  upon  the 
stair  rail. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"Would  you  give  her  to  me  and  prom- 
ise not  to  claim  her  again  ?  " 

She  was  leaning  upon  the  balustrade,  her 
face  in  shadow,  and  turning  the  heavily 
jewelled  rings  she  wore  over  and  over 
upon  her  fingers.  Brilliant  white  and 
cardinal  flashes  gleamed  from  them,  and 


DRUMSTICKS.  89 

she  seemed  more  occupied  with  them  than 
with  her  words. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  repeated,  as  before  ; 
then,  seeing  that  he  was  in  earnest,  she 
became  more  thoughtful.  "  Why  not?" 
she  whispered.  "  You  would  be  good  to 
the  little  thing.  She's  your  kind  ! "  Then 
a  cynical  smile  followed  as  she  added  : 
"  What  would  she  say  ?" 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her  last  ques- 
tion, but  grasping  her  hands  he  turned 
her  face  to  the  light. 

"  Sophie,  it  would  be  a  serious  business  ! 
If  I  took  her  it  would  be  to  keep  her  ! 
There  could  be  no  backing  out,  no  change 
of  mind  \" 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  If  I  once  arranged  her 
future  well,  and  got  rid  of  the  responsi- 
bility, I  should  not  want  her  back  ?  " 

And,  looking  in  her  face,  he  saw  that 
she  was  serious. 

He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  We'll  talk  this  over  again. " 

And  as  he  went  out  of  the  front  door 
he  looked  up  to  where  a  flood  of  pink 
light  seemed  to  centre  about  the  wonder- 


90  DRUMSTICKS. 

f ul  face  and  form  of  Sophie,  as  she  leaned, 
still  smiling,  over  the  balustrade  watching 
his  departure. 

She  had  never  shown  the  slightest  trace 
of  regret  over  the  matter  of  his  indiffer- 
ence to  her  charms  since  the  night  of  the 
first  performance  of  "  The  Golden  Bub- 
ble. "  It  had  been,  and  still  was,  a  great 
success,  and  would  probably  run  until 
Christmas,  when  a  new  extravaganza  would 
be  put  upon  the  same  stage,  in  which 
Sophie  was  to  have  a  part.  He  had  gathered 
this  from  her,  and  knew  that  the  company 
were  already  rehearsing.  Further  than 
that  she  had  said  nothing  to  him  of  her 
affairs.  And  it  was  with  the  most  smiling 
good  humor  that  she  saw  his  brief  infatu- 
ation for  herself  changed  into  a  friendship 
for  the  child.  Now  it  struck  him  for  the 
first  time  that  she  might  have  had  the 
adoption  of  Drumsticks  by  himself  in  mind 
all  of  the  time.  It  is  probable  that  to  the 
shrewd  Sophie  the  idea  had  occurred  be- 
fore this  evening. 

Poole  walked  down  the  block  toward 
Broadway,  with  his  hands  behind  him, 


DRUMSTICKS.  91 

grasping  his  stick.  The  streets  were 
crowded,  many  pedestrians  carrying  um- 
brellas, as  the  mist  was  gradually  congeal- 
ing into  a  cold  rain.  The  wet  dripped 
from  the  f aQades  and  steeples.  The  grime 
of  it!  Dirty  Manhattan,  lying  like  a  trol- 
lop in  the  embrace  of  encircling  rivers, 
while  her  heart  reeked  with  the  secret 
soul-tragedies  of  sin,  even  as  her  bells  of 
a  Sunday  rang  out  angelic  chimes! 

It  would  surely  be  something  to  save 
one  little  white  soul  out  of  all  this  filth ! 

Sleek,  well  dressed,  leisurely,  and 
wretched,  he  was  perhaps  envied  of  many 
as  he  passed  on  his  way.  And,  in  mind, 
he  was  picturing  the  last  four  months  to 
himself — a  sort  of  sad  chiaroscuro — never 
to  be  eliminated  from  his  past.  And  in  a 
monotone  ran  the  accompaniment  to  this 
thought : 

"Why  not?" 

In  order  to  save  Drumsticks  from  the 
wreck  he  must  tell  Charlotte  all,  and  at 
once.  She  would  never  recover  her  con- 
fidence in  him.  It  would  mean  the  death 
of  that  beautiful  thing.  But  he  would  re- 


92  DRUMSTICKS. 

cover  a  certain  portion  of  his  self-respect. 
And  Drumsticks  wonld  be  safe.  For 
Charlotte  would  take  her,  and  the  child 
would  lead  a  happy  life,  and  grow  to  be  a 
true  and  good  woman. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  might  do  as  other 
men  about  him  did — were  doing — cover  it 
up,  forget  it — if  he  could.  And  the  child  ? 
Let  her  go  to  the  devil !  And  she  would ! 
Sophie  would  see  to  that. 

He  could  not  do  this.     Ah,  Charlotte! 

He  would — he  would  tell  her  all.  He 
knew  his  Charlotte!  The  royal  nature  of 
her!  The  everlasting  tenderness  of  her! 
And  her  good  will  to  all — especially — little 
children. 

If  the  Charlottes  only  knew  how  much 
better  the  John  Pooles  love  them  after 
having  met  and  loathed  the  Sophies!  Or 
perhaps  one  might  say  how  much  more 
they  appreciate  them! 

Acting  on  a  resolution  thus  born  of  im- 
pulse, and  nourished  by  desperation,  Poole 
took  that  night's  nine  o'clock  train  for 
Seascrest.  And  he  went  with  the  deter- 
mination to  tell  Charlotte  all.  And  if  she 


DRUMSTICKS.  93 

should  tell  him  to  go  away  into  the  hope- 
lessness of  an  existence  without  her,  he 
knew  her  well  enough  to  know  that  she 
would  take  Drumsticks.  And  he  hoped 
that  out  of  the  black  night  which  covered 
him  a  new  day  might  dawn  for  the  child. 
As  he  settled  himself  in  his  car  chair  he 
shook  out  his  paper  and  glanced  at  its 
date.  It  was  that  of  the  last  day  in  Sep- 
tember. 


PAET  I. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

CONTAINING  A  CONFESSION. 


"  Oft.,  blame  me  not  that  1 

Have  been  a  shipwrecked  man  ! 
You  little  know  how  high 
TJie  tide  and  current  ran  !  " 

IT  must  be  a  very  hard  thing  to  tell  one 
woman  of  another  when  you  and  she  both 
know  that  other  has  no  business  whatever 
to  be  in  the  enclosure  you  ironically  call 
your  life,  but  which  you  inform  yourself 
is  hell. 

If  Charlotte  had  but  been  of  a  suspicious 
nature  !  It  would  have  been  so  much 
easier  for  Poole  to  be  dishonest.  But 
when  a  sweet  woman  trusts  a  bad  man, 
even  while  he  is  glutted  with  sin,  and  a 
sweet  child  loves  him  on  sight  "because 
he  is  good,"  strange  things  happen,  espe- 
cially if  the  man  happens  to  have  a  vein  of 
honesty  imbedded  in  the  rock  of  his 
nature.  Honesty  is  a  terrible  thing.  A 
man  who  is  born  honest  can  never  be  bad 
with  a  particle  of  comfort  in  his  badness. 


DRUMSTICKS.  95 

Still,  if  Charlotte  had  not  been  just  Char- 
lotte, and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  child, 
Poole  would  probably  have  gone  on 
through  life  like  many  another  devil- 
prodded  man,  with  a  secret  as  big  as  an 
Edam  cheese,  masticated,  but  illy-digested 
by  his  soul. 

As  it  was,  once  settled  in  his  determina- 
tion to  confess,  a  fury  of  haste  seized  him. 
Should  he  never  reach  Seascrest  ?  He 
missed  the  train  which  he  expected  to 
catch,  and  was  forced  to  wait  in  the  sta- 
tion another  hour — the  longest  hour  he 
ever  knew.  And  during  it  he  had  nothing 
but  thoughts  to  occupy  him.  ^^ata^ 

Morals  are  a  matter  of  comparison^  arid 
the  person  who  might  feel  himself  a  saint 
in  a  concert  hall  would  feel  a  sinner  in  a 
cathedral.  So  Poole,  who,  when  with 
Sophie,  felt  himself  oppressed  with  the 
weight  of  his  own  moral  superiority,  be- 
came convinced  of  his  obliquity  when 
even  in  thought  he  approached  Charlotte. 

And  he  was  going  to  tell  her  all. 

That  from  one  point  of  view  it  might 
have  been  better  to  have  saved  her  the 


96  DRUMSTICKS. 

pain  was  true,  but  Poole  was  beyond  dis- 
cussing that  with  himself.  He  was  filled 
with  the  madness  of  a  desire  to  recover  his 
lost  honesty  and  end  the  lie  of  it  all.  A 
man  may  be  bad  with  a  something  good 
about  him  which  shall  eventually  save 
him.  So  he  may  be  good  with  a  some- 
thing bad  about  him  which  shall  ulti- 
mately work  his  destruction.  That  John 
Adzit  Poole  was  a  bad  man  there  was  no 
shadow  of  doubt.  But  he  had  as  much 
which  was  not  purely  evil  as  may  lie  in 
inbred  honesty.  And  there  is  nothing  so 
well  calculated  to  destroy  the  peace  of 
mind  of  a  whole  family  as  one  really  hon- 
est person  within  it,  when  that  person  has 
gone  wrong. 

A  confession  would  put  Poole  square 
with  his  conscience,  as  it  was  also  associ- 
ated with  repentance ;  and  it  was  this 
honest  desire  of  his  to  throw  off  deceit 
which  was  his  own  personal  saving.  But 
that  confession  was  to  ruin  many  fair 
things  for  Charlotte,  such  as  faith,  and 
trust,  and  a  blessed  ignorance  of  evil. 
Might  not  some  man  have  been  strong 


DRUMSTICKS.  97 

enough  to  roast  on  in  a  simmering  hell, 
cheerfully  offering  the  devil  his  own  soul,  so 
such  a  woman  be  spared  the  awakening  ? 

There  are  two  classes  of  sin.  One  we 
commit  feeling  the  greatest  horror  lest  the 
world  should  discover  it.  And  we  say  of 
it :  "  God  would  forgive  it,  as  he  made 
us  —  human  !  "  The  second  class  the 
world  chuckles  over  and  shares  with  us, 
but  the  soul  has  an  uneasy  conviction  that 
the  good  God's  point  of  view  would  be 
different.  Poole  decided  that  his  belonged 
to  the  first  class,  and  he  felt  that  if  Char- 
lotte would  overlook  it  he  would  not 
worry  about  any  heavenly  forgiveness. 
Since  Eden,  more  forgiveness  had  been 
asked  and  bestowed  upon  souls  for  that 
particular  sin  than  for  any  other. 

But  Poole's  sin  was  to  lose  him  an 
Eden  which  he  had  at  first  valued  but 
lightly,  and  whose  worth  he  was  finally  to 
realize  with  the  despair  of  sickening  loss. 

That  evening — not  daring  to  risk  a 
wakeful  night,  during  which  he  was  afraid 
his  resolve  might  weaken  as  once  before 
— he  told  Charlotte  all. 


98  DRUMSTICKS. 

How  he  took  the  heart  of  her,  and  tore 
and  wrung  it  with  the  anguish  of  his  tale, 
I  cannot  tell.  That  he  would  have  died 
rather  than  have  hurt  her  so  cruelly,  is  as 
trite  as  his  weakness.  But  he  had  to  live 
on,  and  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  the 
man  to  be  able  to  live  a  lie.  And  so  he 
told  what  was  a  strange,  wild  story  for  a 
man  to  tell,  and  for  a  woman  to  hear.  It 
blistered  the  page  of  life  upon  which  it 
was  written.  It  showed  the  pure  Charlotte 
the  stress  of  a  man's  unruly  passion  for 
the  first  time.  It  opened  to  her  astonished 
vision  the  weakness  of  the  will  of  him, 
along  with  the  truth  that  dwelt  in  his 
nature. 

For  the  first  time  she  knew  of  the 
sphinx- woman — she  with  the  female  breast 
and  face  and  body  of  beast.  The  black 
cloud  of  knowledge  came  and  rested  upon 
Charlotte,  but  through  and  above  it  she 
lifted  loving  eyes — lifted  them  skyward, 
and  so  saw  the  end  was  not  of  this  earth, 
and  seeing,  was  enabled  to  forgive. 
(  A  something  went  out  of  life  for  her, 
and  a  something  entered  in.  Along  with 


DRUMSTICKS.  99 

the  bewilderment  of  a  first  jealousy  of 
woman  came,  like  a  straw  upon  dark 
waters,  a  yearning  pity  for  a  child. 

And  for  the  man — pity  also — and  for- 
giveness. 

But — poor  Poole  !  It  was  the  pity  and 
forgiveness  which  left  him  no  longer  the 
One  Man,  but  a  miserable  creature  to  be 
looked  down  upon  in  mercy,  and  never  up 
to  in  respect.  So — John  Poole  lost  his 
Eden,  and  felt  it,  and  knew  it,  and  was 
never  to  forget  it. 

The  little  story  grows  a  sad  one,  al- 
though one  does  not  like  to  have  it  so. 
But  sweetness,  and  innocence,  and  tender 
hearts  are  no  protection  from  the  invader 
grief.  And  this  story  is  necessarily  sad,  as 
it  is  true.  And  there  are  alive  to-day  those 
who,  if  they  chance  upon  it,  will  throw 
their  memory  back  into  the  years  and 
recognize  it  as  such.  The  Charlotte  and 
the  Sophie  still  live.  The  one  devoted  to 
her  son,  who  often  makes  with  her  a  pil- 
grimage to  where,  under  grass  green 
enough  for  forgetfulness,  a  sinner  sleeps. 
A  kind  sinner  whose  heart  was  too  hot, 


100  DBUMSTICKS. 

and  whose  mind  was  too  generous  to  insure 
just  judgment  from  those  whom  he  in- 
jured. 

And  dead  he  possesses  a  something 
which  was  never  entirely  his  in  life. 

For  that  gentle  woman  often  instructs 
her  son  that  he  is  to  be  good — like  his 
father.  Thus  are  sins  forgiven  to  the 
dead  by  the  living,  when  the  living  are 
women,  and  have  warm  bosoms  shelter- 
ing tender  hearts.  As  for  Sophie,  she 
sang  in  a  minor  part  at  Covent  Garden  not 
long  ago.  That  she  remembers  best  Poole 
or  Pierrot — who  can  say  ? 


PAKT  I. 
CHAPTER  VII. 

SHOWING  HOW   THE  CHILD  SEEMINGLY  PROFITS 
BY   THE   SIN. 


"As  a  silver  thistle,  whirling,  wind-blown, 
Is  by  frail  chance  on  a  fair  hill-aide  sown  !  " 

THE  strangest  condition  Avhich  Char- 
lotte made  in  regard  to  their  adoption  of 
Drumsticks  was  that  she  herself  should 
see  and  talk  with  the  mother  of  the  child. 

And  before  Poole  had  recovered  from 
his  amazement  at  this,  he  was  informed 
by  Sophie  that  unless  she  should  meet  his 
wife  she  should  most  emphatically  refuse 
to  surrender  the  child  to  her  care. 

"  Would  you  expect  me  to  give  her  up 
to  one  whom  I  had  never  seen  ?  "  she  de- 
manded virtuously. 

Now,  this  was  the  thing  of  all  others 
which  Poole  most  dreaded.  The  man  does 
not  feel  complacency  at  the  idea  of  the  two 
women  in  his  life  meeting  for  a  chat.  It 
was  distinctly  unpleasant.  He  was  not 


102  DRUMSTICKS. 

sure  of  what  Sophie  might  or  might  not 
say  to  Charlotte.  But  the  women  had 
their  way  in  the  matter. 

And  each  demanded  the  meeting  of  him 
in  the  name  of  Drumsticks,  but  each  was 
actuated  by  another  motive — curiosity. 

Can  one  believe  that  Lilith  and  Eve 
never  met  ?  Aye,  and  gazed  each  at  each 
with  hungry,  curious  eyes  ? 

Sophie  willed  to  see  this  immaculate 
virtue  which  men  respected,  and — left 
to  weep  at  home.  And,  as  for  Char- 
lotte, she  was  no  less  inquisitive  in  regard 
to  this  incarnate  mystery — one  of  those 
strange  creatures  who  had  only  to  lift  a 
pencilled  eyebrow  to  steal  one's  husband. 
And  yet — what  could  two  beings  from 
such  different  worlds  find  to  say  to  each 
other  ? 

But  the  two  women  had  their  way  in 
the  matter. 

What  passed  between  them  we  shall 
never  know.  Poole  never  did,  and  could 
only  recall  that  the  visit  gave  him  a  very 
bad  half-hour.  Each  had  something 
which  the  other  envied,  for  Sophie  pos- 


DRUMSTICKS.  103 

sessed  what  Charlotte  never  had — beauty. 
And  Charlotte  owned  what  Sophie  had 
forever  lost — virtue.  Add  to  this  the  fact 
that  each  had  loved  the  same  man  in  her 
own  way,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  conceive 
that  the  conversation  must  have  been  a 
rare  one. 

As  its  result,  Drumsticks  was  trans- 
ferred from  one  house  to  another  upon 
the  day  following. 

The  parting  between  Drumsticks  and 
her  mother  was  characteristic.  The  child 
clung  tightly  to  Poole's  hand,  who  had 
come  to  fetch  her.  Sophie  cried  softly, 
picturesquely,  and  then  fell  into  a  sort  of 
purring  rage. 

As  for  Drumsticks,  she  took  it  all  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Not  one  thing  which 
happens  in  the  lives  of  happily  common- 
place children  had  ever  happened  to  her. 

She  considered  the  matter  very  gravely 
as  she  sat  by  Poole's  side  in  the  cab.  All 
her  old  belongings  had  been  left  behind  at 
Charlotte's  request,  who  wished  to  sur- 
round the  child  with  an  entirely  new 
environment — all  save  the  gray  blanket. 


104  DRUMSTICKS. 

And  she  was  to  leave  Sophie  forever — that 
odd  word  which  was  too  long  for  Drum- 
sticks to  understand,  as  it  is  for  most  of  us 
— and  she  was  going  to  leave — also  forever 
— Joy,  and  the  room  where  she  had  lived 
so  long  in  the  fourth  story  of  an  ugly 
house,  and  she  should  never  see  it  again, 
and  she  was  very  glad  of  all  this,  especially 
as  she  was  going  to  live  with  her  Play- 
papa — al  ways — al  ways. 

She  looked  blissfully  at  him  as  she 
thought  this,  and  he  caught  the  glance, 
and  it  made  her  strange  affection  for  him, 
and  his  for  her,  seem  a  holy  thing. 

The  child  was  very  quiet  throughout 
the  trip  to  Seascrest.  Poole  remembered 
afterward  how  she  clung  to  him  while 
crossing  over  the  ferry,  and  how  she  had 
sat  upon  the  car  seat  in  the  train,  with 
her  brown  shoes  thrust  out,  heels  together, 
and  her  small  hands  folded  decorously  in 
her  lap.  Her  lips  were  compressed,  her 
eyes  solemnly  observant  of  everything. 
And  during  the  drive  over  to  the  house 
from  the  station,  she  had  sighed  often, 
with  one  hand  upon  her  heart,  breathing 


DRUMSTICKS.  105 

in  the  cool  salt-fog,  and  watching,  with 
quickly  shifting  glances,  each  glimmering 
light,  and  the  long,  black  hedges  which 
defined  the  properties  of  the  various  coun- 
try houses.  Then  had  come  the  crunch- 
ing of  gravel  as  they  turned  into  a  neat 
driveway,  which  at  last  brought  them  to  a 
doorway  from  whence  shone  a  cheerful 
glow,  suggesting  firelight.  For  although 
the  days  are  still  of  summer,  the  October 
nights  are  chill  down  upon  Long  Island. 

And  then — Charlotte,  who  only  im- 
pressed Drumsticks  upon  that  first  night 
as  a  something  sweet-smelling,  soft,  and 
warm,  whose  voice  was  a  caress.  Into 
the  embrace  of  this  rare  person  she  was 
cuddled,  and  cradled,  bewildered  and 
charmed. 

Ah,  that  night !  That  night  !  Happy 
Drumsticks. 

An  hour  later  Poole  was  left  alone  in  the 
library  downstairs  ;  there  was  the  stir  which 
tells  of  the  introduction  of  the  unusual 
into  a  methodical  family  life.  He  listened 
as  he  paced  the  floor  with  thoughts  burning 
to  ashes  like  the  cigar  between  his  fingers. 


106  DRUMSTICKS. 

• 

With  the  nurse  Clara,  as  with  Poole 
junior,  Drumsticks  was  an  immediate  suc- 
cess. That  it  had  been  so  with  her  son 
was  a  pleasure  to  Charlotte,  and  leaving 
the  two  children  together,  she  stole  down 
to  where  Poole  sat  in  the  shadow.  She 
stood  for  a  moment  in  silence;  then,  after 
exclaiming  against  his  remaining  in  the 
dark,  she  hesitatingly  added  : 

"  Jack — that  name  of  hers — that  ridic- 
ulous name — what  can  be  done  about  it?" 

Poole  deliberated.  He  felt  ill  and  thor- 
oughly miserable,  and  quite  in  the  mood 
to  regret  having  brought  the  child  to  his 
house.  He  was  inclined  to  think  it 
had  been  absurdly  Quixotic.  He  avoided 
Charlotte's  eyes,  feeling  that  he  should 
never  care  to  look  in  them  again. 

"  I — we — cannot  go  on  calling  her 
Drumsticks,"  she  added. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  it — I  have  not 
given  much — I'm  afraid  there  will  be  much 
of  which  I  have  had  no  forethought.  But 
— call  her  what  you  like,  Charlotte.  It 
can  do  no  harm." 

"  And  you  ?     What  are  you  to  be  to  her? 


DRUMSTICKS.  107 

Isn't  it  best  that  the  '  Play-papa '  should 
be  dropped  ?  " 

"  As  you  like.  It  is  all  in  your  hands, 
Charlotte.  I  will  try  and  carry  out  any 
plans  you  consider  proper." 

She  stood  thinking. 

"  It  will  have  to  be  thought  out  little  by 
little.  I've  told  Clara  that  she  is  the  child 
of  a  friend  of  yours,  that  the  father  is 
dead  and  the  mother  unable  to  care  for 
her  properly,  and  that  for  that  reason  we 
have  taken  her.  As  far  as  the  story  goes, 
it  is  true  enough." 

"  Tell  her — tell  others — what  you  like," 
he  said,  dejectedly. 

"  But  one  wishes  to  be  truthful — if  pos- 
sible, Jack.  And  we  ought  both  to  say 
the  same  thing  of  her." 

"  I  know — I  know." 

"  I  shall  say  as  little  as  possible.  There 
will  be  a — gossip — as  you  said  that  night. 
People  will  talk.  They  will  say — there  is 
a  story.  But  we  are  prepared  for  that/' 
said  Charlotte,  bravely.  "  And  it  will  all 
die  away  after  a  bit. " 

Poole    nodded.     The     dusk     hid     his 


108  DRUMSTICKS. 

wretched  face  from  her  eyes.  And  she  ! 
He  had  been  shocked  that  night  to  notice 
the  change  in  her.  Her  lassitude,  her 
gray  pallor  !  She  was  sweet — she  would 
always  be  sweet — but  the  fire — the  color — 
the  freshness — all  were  missing.  She  was 
like  a  rose  still,  but  like  a  rose  which  had 
been  pressed  in  a  book.  And  he  had 
done  it. 

After  lighting  some  candles,  and  ringing 
for  lamps,  Charlotte  glanced  at  the  clock, 
immediately  disappearing,  murmuring 
something  about  the  children's  bedtime. 

It  is  a  trite  saying  that  man  only  real- 
izes how  much  he  has  loved  a  woman 
when  he  has  lost  her,  or  fears  to  do  so. 
Yet  Poole  watched  Charlotte  leave  the 
room,  .following  her  form  with  hungry 
wistf ulness,  as  if  all  he  prized  in  life  went 
with  her. 

He  remembered  when  the  happiness 
he  had  felt  with  her  seemed  to  him  like 
fattening  upon  monotonous  fields  of 
serenity.  It  had  not  satisfied  his  nature. 
It  had  been  restful  and  full  of  peace. 
And  he  had  grown  sick  unto  death  of  it 


DRUMSTICKS.  109 

all.  And  now — it  seemed  so  beautiful  a 
thing — and  was  forever  out  of  reach.  To 
a  nature,  to  a  temperament  like  Poole's, 
such  spiritual  meadow  lands  of  smiling 
pastoral  quiet  would  only  be  endurable- 
after  the  tempest.  The  tempest  had 
come  and  gone.  He  had  had  his  fling 
amid  its  fierceness.  And  he  had  come  at 
last  to  prize  serenity,  peace,  and  quiet, 
only  to  find  the  way  to  those  blessings 
closed.  These  are  life's  little  ironies. 

Charlotte  had  not  one  particle  of  tem- 
perament or  any  other  nonsense  about 
her.  She  represented  rest,  clean  thoughts, 
and  purity.  And  there  had  been  a  time 
when  he  had  tired  of  these  things. 

"I  was  a  cur — a  dirty  cur!"  he  ex- 
claimed, bitterly.  "  And  I  deserve  all  I 
am  getting ! "  He  tossed  his  cigar  into 
the  garden,  opening  the  window  to  do  so, 
and  glad  for  the  touch  of  frosty  air.  It 
fell  among  some  geraniums,  and  he 
watched  it  shine  for  a  moment  before  it 
died  out. 

Upstairs,  Charlotte  was  singing  to  the 
children  : 


110  DRUMSTICKS. 

' '  Little  ones  to  Him  belong  ; 
They  are  weak,  but  He  is  strong." 

Poole  closed  the  window  and  listened. 
In  another  moment  he  heard  Drumsticks 
singing  away  like  a  young  bobolink,  try- 
ing to  follow  Charlotte,  lilting  the  tune, 
fumbling  it,  dropping  it,  then  catching  it 
again  with  a  rush.  And,  above  all,  so 
happy  in  it  ! 

And  it  seemed  then  as  if  all  the  sin 
and  misery  had  resulted  in  a  great 
good  to  an  innocent  child. 

Poole  hoped  this,  although  in  the 
short  time  she  had  been  beneath  his 
roof  the  knowledge  had  come  to  him 
that  her  mere  presence  was  to  be  a  con- 
stant reminder  to  him — and  to  Char- 
lotte —  of  his  guilt.  For  through  it 
he  had  found  Drumsticks.  The  voices 
upstairs  continuing,  Poole  felt  himself 
drawn  toward  them.  There  was  noth- 
ing morbid  but  what  must  find  healing 
and  comfort  in  the  presence  of  Charlotte. 
And  so  he  went  as  near  as  he  dared  go. 
He  knew  he  should  disturb  them  in  the 
nursery,  and  thought  it  best  to  leave  Drum- 


DRUMSTICKS.  Ill 

sticks  entirely  to  his  wife,  this  first  even- 
ing. But  he  crept  noiselessly  to  a  recess 
in  the  hall,  just  outside  the  nursery  door, 
where  there  was  a  couch  and  some  cush- 
ions. He  flung  himself  upon  it,  feeling 
less  lonely  than  when  below  in  the  library. 
For  he  was  nearer  Charlotte. 

As  he  passed  the  nursery  door  he  saw 
the  top  of  her  brown  head  reflected  in  the 
toilet  glass,  as  she  swung  to  and  fro  in  an 
old  rocker  which  stood  near  a  window, 
whose  shades  and  curtains  were  pulled 
aside. 

As  he  lay  upon  the  couch  he  could  hear 
the  creaking  of  the  chair.  That  Charlotte 
had  his  boy  upon  her  breast,  and  that 
Drumsticks  was  encircled  by  one  arm,  he 
gathered  from  what  was  said  by  the 
speaker,  and  by  an  occasional  low  croon, 
with  which  he  had  heard  Charlotte  accen- 
tuate a  kiss  when  given  to  their  child.  A 
lamp  burned  very  dimly  within  the  room. 

"  And  I  can  ask  Him  anything — any- 
thing ?"  he  heard  Drumsticks  say,  pres- 
ently. 

"  Anything,"  soberly  replied  Charlotte. 


112  DEUMSTICKS. 

"  And  He'll  do  it— He'll  give  me  what  I 
ask?" 

' '  Yes.  Perhaps  not  exactly  as  a  little  girl 
would  like.  But  in  His  own  way  he  will." 

"And  He  likes  us  to  forgive  had 
people  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  child  considered.  "I  s'pose  God 
knows  we  don't  mean  it  when  we  pray  for 
'em.  So  He  wouldn't  pay  any  attention, 
anyway.  And  He  will  make  anybody  good 
if  we  ask  Him  ? — and  bless  'em  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  He  likes  us  to  ask  when 
we  pray."  Charlotte  was  evidently 
charmed  with  the  eagerness  with  which 
Drumsticks  was  absorbing  spiritual  truths. 

"  Who  called  Him  God  ?  "  was  the  next 
question. 

Charlotte  hesitated.  "  Dear,  there  are 
so  many  things  one  cannot  explain  to  a 
little  bit  of  a  girl  ! " 

"But grown  folks  understand  it  all,  do 
they  ?  Do  you  ?  "  asked  the  child,  earn- 
estly. 

"  I  try  to,  but  I  am  very,  very  igno- 
rant." 


DRUMSTICKS.  113 

Drumsticks  thought  a  few  moments  so 
intently  that  her  breathing  seemed  la- 
bored. Then  she  said  aloud,  as  if  to  her- 
self : 

"I  shall  just  ask  Him  to  bless  my  Play- 
papa.  I  shan't  ask  Him  to  make  him 
good.  He's  good  enough,  and  so — even 
big  folks  are  just  like  little  children  to 
this  awful  great  Jesus  !  My  !  He  must 
be  big  !  Is  He  as  big  as  this  house  ?  " 

Charlotte  waited  for  wisdom.  ' '  Dear, 
that  is  another  one  of  the  things  we  can- 
not understand.  We  are  not  told  God's 
size — oh,  dear — wait  until  you're  older  ! " 

"But  He's  big?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  my  Play-papa — as  big  as  he  is — 
and  all  grown  up — is  just  God's  little 
boy  ?  "  demanded  Drumsticks,  excitedly. 

God's  little  boy  was  miserably  accepting 
a  spiritual  spanking  at  that  moment. 
Oh,  how  far  away  from  him  the  gentle 
group  within  the  nursery  seemed  !  How 
happy  he  would  have  been  to  have  felt 
himself  clean,  pure  in  spirit,  and  to  have 
been  one  with  them !  And  what  a  bore 


114  DRUMSTICKS. 

he  would  have  thought  such  an  hour  be- 
fore he  had  rendered  himself  an  outcast 
from  all  such  simple  pleasure  ! 

Charlotte  arose  to  lay  her  boy  in  his 
cradle,  leaning  above  him  lovingly.  He 
was  warm,  his  pink  face  covered  with  tiny 
drops  of  moisture,  and  his  cheeks  crimped 
with  the  imprint  of  the  embroidery  upon 
the  waist  of  her  gown.  Drumsticks  fol- 
lowed her  upon  the  tips  of  her  toes, 
breathless,  eagerly  drinking  in  all  the 
strange  newness  of  the  scene,  enchanted 
with  this  her  first  dwelling  in  mother- 
land. 

The  two  stood  in  a  hushed  silence  for  a 
moment,  and  for  that  space  of  time  the 
woman's  face  lost  its  impress  of  bravely 
borne  new  pain. 

He  was  her  man.  He  had  never  been 
false  to  her.  Her  child — years  would  only 
make  it  more  true.  There  is  only  one 
woman  in  the  life  of  each  man  whom  he 
may  never  forget.  He  may  marry  and 
bury  a  serial  of  wives,  but  in  all  the  days 
/  of  the  years  of  his  life  there  will  be  for 
him  but  one  mother.  And  there  is  no 


DRUMSTICKS.  115 

title  to  be  won  of  woman  as  satisfying  as 
that  of  the  Mother  of  Men.  So  Charlotte's 
thoughts  ran. 

Eetnrning  to  her  rocker,  Charlotte 
moved  it  a  little,  that  it  might  command  a 
better  view  of  the  night,  with  its  cold 
stars,  and  then  wrapped  the  white-gowned 
figure  of  Drumsticks  in  her  luxurious  em- 
brace. She  had  the  arms  and  bosom  which 
a  child  turns  to,  and  nestles  into,  and, 
feeling  quite  safe,  adores.  Then  she 
stooped  and  gathered  her  soft  skirt  about 
the  child's  naked  feet,  and  covered  her  to 
the  chin  in  its  fold,  and  smiled  above  her 
like  the  angel  she  was. 

And  Poole  knew  what  the  two  were 
about  from  the  gentle  rustling,  the  creak- 
ing of  the  rocker,  and  his  knowledge  of 
Charlotte. 

"Now  talk  \"  demanded  Drumsticks, 
forgetting  at  last  her  gray  blanket,  and 
not  measuring  her  bliss  at  all,  but  like  a 
child  accepting  it  naturally. 

For  children  are  philosophers,  in  that 
they  make  their  own  the  lost  art  of  exist- 


116  DRUMSTICKS. 

ing,  idly  intoxicated  with  the  mere  tran- 
quil sense  of  being. 

And  Charlotte  talked,  and  Poole  thought 
he  had  never  heard  her  talk  as  well.  But 
that  was  possibly  because  he  found  him- 
self outside  of  it  all.  In  his  isolation 
he  heard  her  try  to  explain  to  the  child 
the  change  that  had  come  to  her  life. 
There  was  to  be — as  it  were — a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth,  and  to  Drum- 
sticks it  seemed  mostly  heaven.  There 
was  to  be  no  Play-papa,  it  was  true,  but  a 
kind  Uncle  Jack,  who  would  love  her  more 
than  ever.  And  there  was  to  be  an  Aunt 
Charlotte,  and,  stranger  than  all,  there 
was  to  be  no  Drumsticks,  but  a  new  little 
girl,  with  quite  a  new  name,  and  who  was 
to  have  nothing  to  do  but  play,  be  good, 
and  love  God.  It  was  to  be  almost  like 
Kevelations.  though  Drumsticks  had  never 
heard  of  that. 

She  lay  very  still,  her  sensitive  lips 
quivering,  her  eyes  as  bright  as  those  of  a 
bird.  She  tried  to  take  it  all  in,  and  to 
understand  what  the  pleasant  voice  was  tell- 
ing her.  But  she  found  'it  a  bit  difficult. 


DRUMSTICKS.  117 

"  And  so  I've  no  Play-papa — but  just 
an  Uncle  Jack  ?  " 

"  It  is  better  so,  dear." 

"  And  he  wasn't  a  real  Play-papa  ?  " 

Charlotte  hesitated  before  her  answer. 
"  No." 

"  And  now  he  is  a  real  Uncle  Jack  ?  " 

Another  pause.  "  He  \vill  be  as  good 
as  one." 

"  I'd  like  something  real/'  said  the 
child's  wistful  voice.  "And  Sophie?" 
added  the  new  little  girl,  after  another 
pause. 

"  Forget  her,  dear,  and  don't  talk  of 
her — to  any  one  !  " 

"  All  right.  I  will,"  was  the  answer. 
The  child  was  much  impressed  by  the 
mystery  of  it  all.  "  And  what  is — what 
relation  is  my — Uncle  Jack — to  you  ?  " 

"  He  is — the  papa  of  dear  baby." 

And  Poole  overhearing,  accepted  the 
position  given  him  in  the  menage.  And 
then  he  held  his  breath,  fearing  the  next 
question.  It  came^the  one  he  had  in- 
stinctively dreaded  and  endowed  with 
awfulness. 


118  DRUMSTICKS. 

"  And  what  relation  is  my  Uncle  Jack  to 
Sophie  ?" 

A  cold  sweat  was  upon  Poole,  and  he 
awaited  the  answer  in  a  fury.  It  came 
without  hesitation. 

"  He  was — and  is — no  relation." 

"And  what  is  my  new  name  ?"  asked 
the  child,  after  another  silence  which  had 
led  Charlotte  to  hope  her  sleeping. 

"I  don't  know,  Drumsticks — only  we 
must  find  something  dear  enough  and 
pretty  enough  for  our  own  little  girl. 
Try  and  sleep." 


PAET   I. 
CHAPTER   VIII. 

DURING  WHICH  THE  CHILD   IS  HAPPY. 


"  Et — Rose, — elle  a  vecu  ce  que  vivent  les  roses, 
L'espace  cTun  matin." 

THE  following  weeks  of  that  autumn 
were  the  happiest  of  the  child's  life.  And 
the  love  which  she  found  with  Poole  and 
Charlotte  was  like  a  sunbeam  which, 
stealing  for  an  hour  through  the  shutters, 
lights  the  melancholy  of  a  darkened  room. 

She  grew  rosy,  expanding  like  a  young 
plant  taken  from  the  cellar  into  the  open. 
The  expression  of  her  face  changed.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  knew  that 
simple,  healthy  existence  of  which  the 
town-bred  child  is  ignorant.  For  the 
first  time  she  was  subjected  to  that  nur- 
sery routine  so  conventional,  so  sensible, 
and  so  morally  wholesome  for  the  young 
human  animal.  Her  small  body  was 
clothed  in  simplest  attire  of  warm  wool, 
with  fine  aprons  overlaying  it  whitely. 


120  DRUMSTICKS. 

These  took  the  place  of  those  over  ornate 
and  conspicuous  frocks  with  which  So- 
phie had  been  pleased  to  robe  her. 

Her  early  supper  in  the  nursery,  with 
the  crowing  baby  and  the  gentle  Charlotte 
for  companions,  waited  upon  by  the  deft 
Clara,  was  a  delight.  The  two  children 
became  very  fond  of  each  other,  and  little 
Poole  turned  to  her  each  morning  as 
soon  as  sleep  left  him.  Each  night  Char- 
lotte had  much  to  tell  her  husband  of 
Drumsticks'  new  grace  and  fancy.  It 
was  a  safe  subject,  and  there  was  much  to 
avoid  in  conversation.  Poole  was  trying 
hard  to  wait  patiently,  hoping  that  at 
least  a  part  of  the  heart  he  had  lost  might 
some  time  be  returned  to  him.  And  he 
was  very  miserable  all  of  these  never-to-be- 
forgotten  days.  About  the  raised  eye- 
brows of  it,  and  the  gossip  of  it,  he  gave 
himself  little  concern.  A  rich  man  can 
afford  a  sin  now  and  then. 

What  is  a  sin  worth  ? 

Surely  not  the  price  paid  for  it. 

Poole  was  far  more  miserable  than 
Charlotte.  To  her — pure,  frank,  sensible 


DRUMSTICKS.  121 

Charlotte— there  seemed  but  one  course 
open,  since  she  had  elected  to  live  out  her 
life  with  him — that  of  making  the  best  of 
it  all. 

Lacking  in  imagination,  she  was  spared 
much  anguish,  as  she  failed  to  picture  the 
scenes  which  jealousy  would  have  sug- 
gested. Less  a  woman  than  an  angel, 
she  was  not  of  a  type  to  undergo  that  cru- 
cifixion of  the  heart  which  would  have 
bowed  some  women  to  the  earth.  Char- 
lotte did  not  understand.  That  woman 
is  happiest  who  understands  men  least. 
But  the  measure  of  sorrow  which  had 
come  to  her  left  her  a  richness  of  charm 
which  she  had  not  before  owned.  Not 
realizing  this,  Poole  wondered  continually 
how  he  had  failed  to  perceive  that  she 
possessed  it.  Grief  is  a  passion,  and  any 
passion  ripens.  There  are  natures  which 
are  only  brought  to  fruition  through 
transports  of  tears.  Those  delicate  flow- 
ers of  trust,  affection,  and  sympathy 
which  bloom  to  perfection  in  such  a  nat- 
ure as  that  of  Charlotte  had  seemed  but 
commonplace  until  the  white  moonlight 


122  DEUMSTICKS. 

of  mysterious  charm  had  mantled  them. 
And  when  that  happened  they  were  lost 
to  Poole.  The  man  or  woman  who,  pos- 
sessing them,  risks  such  a  loss,  through 
the  yielding  to  ephemeral  desire,  deserves 
the  banishment  from  Eden  which  may 
follow.  The  love  of  Charlotte  might  have 
been  a  Garden  Delight  to  one  who  could 
have  forgotten,  amid  its  lilies,  the  vivid 
temptings  of  other  blossoms  growing  out- 
side the  lawful  enclosure. 

Poole  had  strayed  after  the  forbidden. 
And  now  he  found  himself  locked  outside 
the  Garden,  clinging  to  the  palings  like  a 
bad  small  boy,  and  curiously  watching  the 
goings-on  within,  where  Drumsticks  had 
been  admitted  to  play  among  the  lilies. 
He  had  been  a  hog,  and  was  now  in  a  posi- 
tion to  dispute  with  Thoreau  the  entailed 
right  to  satisfaction  attributed  to  that 
animal.  He  had  wallowed,  and  found 
himself  neither  satisfied  nor  a  philoso- 
pher. Ah — if  he  had  but  been  a  little 
better  man— or — a  little  worse  ! 

Meanwhile  Drumsticks  was  happy.  She 
was  happy  as  only  children  are  happy. 


DRUMSTICKS.  123 

She  asked  no  questions.  Her  lot  had  been 
cast  into  her  lap,  and  it  was  a  fine  one, 
and  she  was  very  busy  with  it.  Her  new 
name  had  not  as  yet  been  decided  upon, 
although  it  was  much  discussed. 

Poole  wished  to  call  the  child  Pamela, 
after  a  little  playmate  of  his  who  had 
died  when  he  was  away  at  school  for  the 
first  time.  She  had  gone  away  leaving  a 
memory  like  the  odor  of  new-mown  hay 
in  his  boyish  life.  And  at  times  through- 
out his  manhood  it  had  delicately  ob- 
truded itself  in  a  vague  way,  always  subt- 
ly suggesting  things  clean,  and  the  early 
hours  of  a  dewy  morning  in  spring.  And 
the  name  pleased  Charlotte  very  well. 

But  Mrs.  Applegate's  indifference  to 
the  child's  advent  suddenly  developed 
into  a  vital  interest  whenever  the  subject 
of  the  new  name  was  approached.  Her 
zeal  was  never  understood  by  Poole,  nor 
did  he  ever  know  what  ideas  she  enter- 
tained as  to  the  presence  of  the  child  in 
the  family.  All  that  had  passed  upon  the 
subject  had  been  conducted  behind  closed 
doors  by  Charlotte.  Drumsticks  had 


124  DRUMSTICKS. 

been  accepted  by  the  old  lady  and  endured, 
and  even  made  much  of.  For  Drum- 
sticks "  had  a  way  with  her,"  as  even  the 
cook  owned.  Any  one  who  ever  knew  the 
child  will  find  a  pleasure  in  recalling  it. 

But  in  the  matter  of  the  new  name 
Mrs.  Applegate  stood  firm.  It  must  be 
religious — the  more  religious  the  better — 
as  a  sort  of  offset  to  the  one  the  child  had 
so  far  owned.  The  name  of  Drumsticks 
was  worse  than  mythology,  and  Mrs.  Ap- 
plegate considered  mythology  very  bad 
indeed.  The  gentle  tides  of  days  must 
be  allowed  to  rise  and  ebb  before  it  would 
be  possible  to  divorce  her  from  her  choice 
of  Hannah,  a  name  which  she  considered 
unpretending  and  at  the  same  time  most 
respectable.  Charlotte  evaded  an  imme- 
diate decision  in  the  matter,  knowing  by 
experience  that  she  should  gain  a  point 
by  doing  so.  And  the  child  herself  was 
so  happy  it  really  appeared  to  matter  very 
little  whether  she  had  any  name  at  all. 

Her  startling  and  ingenuous  acceptance 
of  Scripture  was  surprising,  and  occasion- 
ally disconcerting. 


DRUMSTICKS.  125 

It  afforded  Mrs.  Applegate  continual 
consternation.  '  One  morning  she  discov- 
ered Drumsticks  kneeling  in  the  barn- 
yard, with  arms  outstretched  to  fluttering 
pigeons  above  her  head,  and  a  most 
piously  exalted  expression  upon  her  small, 
round  face. 

"  What  are  yon  doing,  child  ?  Get  up 
instantly  !  You  are  quite  daubed  with 
filth  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  indig- 
nantly. 

"I'm  playing  Fm  the  Virgin  Mary! 
Don't  you  see  the  angel  ? "  piped  the 
child's  healthy  treble,  and  Mrs.  Applegate 
was  overcome,  and  retreated  gasping  and 
wordless. 

The  imaginative  faculty  was  enormously 
developed  in  the  child,  enabling  her  faith 
in  Charlotte  to  cause  in  her  mind  a  most 
literal  acceptance  of  the  mighty  religious 
statements  of  nursery  talks.  And  her 
questions  would  have  staggered  better  the- 
ology than  that  of  the  gentle  Charlotte. 

Among  other  characteristics  of  Drum- 
sticks which  never  failed  to  puzzle  and 
scandalize  Mrs.  Applegate,  was  the  love 


126  DRUMSTICKS. 

she  entertained  for  the  old  gray  blanket. 
She  regarded  it  as  foolish  in  the  extreme, 
and  even  a  setting  up  of  an  idol,  as  it 
were.  This  was  especially  true  when  she 
discovered  that  the  child  talked  to  it  as  if 
it  were  a  live  thing.  And  when  she  in- 
sisted upon  rewarding  the  blanket  for 
fictitious  virtues,  and  upon  punishing  it 
for  alleged  lapses,  Mrs.  Applegate  drew 
the  line. 

Happening  to  enter  the  nursery  upon 
the  occasion  of  a  bath  hour,  she  found 
the  baby  redolent  of  violet  powder,  and 
with  his  damp,  gold  curls  fresh  from 
Charlotte's  fingers. 

To  this  royal  highness  came  his  hand- 
maid, Drumsticks,  scantily  arrayed  and 
dragging  the  gray  blanket.  With  stern 
persistence  she  impressed  upon  the  inter- 
ested infant  that  Miss  Gray  Blanket  was 
bad — very  bad  indeed. 

"  Baby  whip  !  —so !    Bad— bad— la d!" 

And  Poole,  the  younger,  ever  ready,  as 
humans  are,  to  punish,  did  most  solemnly 
spat  with  his  fat,  pink  palms  upon  the 
blanket  which  Drumsticks  held  before  him. 


DRUMSTICKS.  127 

"Why  do  you  teach  baby  thus,  child  ?" 
questioned  the  old  lady,  with  stiff  lips. 

"  I  must !  She  was  so  naughty ! " 
Here  Drumsticks  shook  the  blanket  in- 
dignantly. 

"  Naughty  !  A  blanket  —  naughty  ! 
Come  !  come  !  This  is  too  much  !  How 
very  silly  for  a  little  girl  of  seven  ! " 

"But  you  don't  know!" 

"  What  is  it  I  don't  know  ?" 

(Many  things,  possibly,  Mrs.  Apple- 
gate!) 

"  Why/'  replied  Drumsticks,  sinking 
her  voice  to  a  whisper,  "she  [the  blanket] 
said  she  didn't  love  Jesus  ! " 

Mrs.  Applegate  stared  hard  at  the 
child.  It  was  a  high-bred  stare  of  which 
she  was  pardonably  vain.  She  opened  her 
mouth,  which  was  inclined  to  be  abysmal, 
by  the  way,  and  then  closed  it,  her  book- 
ish nose  drooping  over  it  once  more  in  a 
resigned  fashion. 

That  afternoon,  however,  she  offered  a 
protest  to  Charlotte. 

"  Why  do  you  teach  the  child  so — er — 
literally  from  the  Bible?" 


128  DRUMSTICKS. 

"  Because  I  believe — literally." 
"All  of  it?" 

"  Yes,  mother  !  It  seems  to  me  that 
one  must  accept  it  so — as  a  little  child — 
or — not  at  all." 

"  What  a  child  you  are  yourself,  Char- 
ley ! "  Mrs.  Applegate's  tone  became 
mildly  tolerant. 

"Ami?" 

"  But — literally — one  can   struggle  ! — 
but —     That — first  chapter  of  Matthew  ! 
Why — er — "     Mrs.  Applegate  had  never 
been  in  touch  with  Matthew. 

She  bulged  mentally  as  one  who  had  in 
her  own  opinion  flouted  that  disciple. 
"  But  I  hope,"  she  added,  virtuously, 
"  that  I  believe  all  that  is  necessary  !  " 

"I  don't  know,  mother/'  said  Char- 
lotte, simply,  not  as  a  reply  to  the  possi- 
ble inquiry  in  Mrs.  Applegate's  foregoing 
remark,  but  thoughtfully,  as  one  whose 
wistful  eyes  search  a  spiritual  horizon. 
"I  don't  know.  I  must  believe  it  all! 
I  must  believe  it  to  live  !  "  There  was  a 
sob  caught  in  Charlotte's  white  throat. 

"  Humph  !      This  Quixotic  adoption  of 


DKUMSTICKS.  129 

this  unearthly  child  is  only  a  beginning  ! " 
And  Mrs.  Applegate  was  fain  to  groan 
aloud. 

But  Drumsticks  knew  nothing  of  such 
talk.  She  was  living  her  dreams.  And 
the  star,  and  the  dear  Jesus,  who  loved  her 
so  much  that  He  would  grant  her  every 
wish,  continued  to  be  as  real  to  her  as  the 
arms  of  Charlotte. 

And  oh,  the  enchanted  hours  in  the  gar- 
den ! 

There  was  an  old  tree,  with  a  clematis 
vine  about  it,  and  with  a  crook  in  its 
trunk  which  made  a  fine  seat,  quite  as  if 
a  fairy  had  ordered  it  to  be  so.  Some  of 
the  flowers  were  gone,  it  was  true,  but  in 
each  seed  clinging  to  its  pod  there  was 
left  a  promise  to  a  little  dreamer  like 
Drumsticks.  And  there  were  still  many 
blossoms  hanging  upon  the  stalks  of  the 
carnations,  and  nasturtiums  along  with 
chrysanthemums  wooed  by  dull  old  bees ; 
and  there  was  a  spider  —  but  why  dwell 
upon  it  ? 

Oh,  the  dreams  the  child  found  there  ! 
and  the  dreams  she  left  there  for  all  to 


130  DRUMSTICKS. 

dream  who  should  come  after  her  !  A 
dream  of  a  small,  serious  child,  with  in- 
tent, earnest  eyes,  a  sweet  mouth,  and 
with  a  certain  grace  of  childish  ease  in 
movement  which  was  all  her  own.  The 
little  figure  seems  still  to  flit  about  those 
garden  paths  upon  certain  golden  autumn 
days  when  all  is  very  still. 

And  then,  best  of  all,  a  ringing,  just  at 
dusk,  of  the  bell,  calling  to  supper  in  the 
nursery,  where  a  delicious  feeling  of  cosey 
well-being  and  of  shut-in-ness  was  im- 
parted when  the  shades  were  lowered. 

Ting-a-ling  !  Ting-a-ling  !  No  !  there 
was  no  more  cheery  sound  than  that ! 

And  when  Poole,  coming  from  town 
some  hours  later,  stole  up  the  stairs  to 
make  his  dinner  toilette,  it  was  frequently 
to  hear  the  drowsy  murmur  of  a  happy 
child's  voice  : 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  ; 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep." 


PAKT  I. 
CHAPTER  IX. 

DEALING  WITH  THE  SINNER,   THE   CHILD,  AND  A 
LITTLE  SHIP. 


"  Madame,  as  you  pass  us  by. 

Dreaming  of  your  loves  and  wines, 

Do  not  brush  your  rich  brocade 
Against  this  little  maid  of  mine, 

Madame,  as  you  pass  us  by!  " 

ONE  evening  Poole,  returning  to  Seas- 
crest  by  an  early  train,  insinuated  himself, 
with  a  fine  art,  into  the  nursery  at  bed- 
time. 

Keeping  one  eye  well  upon  Charlotte,  he 
dandled  his  astonished  son  upon  his  knee, 
according  attentions  never  rendered  be- 
fore. It  must  be  remembered  that  Poole 
had  always  disliked  babies,  and  as  a  young 
father  had  never  experienced  the  glow  of 
pride  said  to  be  the  property  of  paternity. 
Charlotte  went  quietly  about,  folding  and 
arranging  the  children's  clothing,  and  con- 
sulting in  a  low  voice  with  Clara  the  de- 
tails of  a  nightly  nursery  toilette.  She  was 
surprised  at  Poolers  caring  to  be  with  them, 


132  DRUMSTICKS. 

and  a  little  amused.  But  Charlotte  never 
wondered  at  anything  long.  She  undressed 
Drumsticks  before  she  came  for  the  baby. 
When  she  took  him  from  his  father  their 
hands  touched,  and  the  contact  was  un- 
noticed by  her,  although  since  the  night 
upon  which  he  had  made  his  wild  confes- 
sion she  had  never  been  as  near  to  him. 

With  Poole  it  was  not  so. 

Her  touch  was  so  tenderly  feminine,  so 
full  of  the  gift  of  herself,  that  he  longed 
to  fall  at  her  feet  in  most  abject  humility 
and  beg  that  she  lay  her  hands  upon  his 
head,  that  the  fever  of  his  brain  might 
leave  him. 

But  he  only  said  :  "  Go  to  mamma, 
youngster  !  "  with  a  half -embarrassed  dab 
of  a  kiss,  which  fell  wide  of  its  mark. 

He  watched  them  for  a  moment,  but 
Drumsticks,  jealous,  stole  within  the  cir- 
cle of  his  arm.  She  loved  him,  and — be- 
lieved in  him.  That  was  written  in  her  de- 
lightful eyes.  He  drew  her  to  a  chair  by 
the  window,  and  took  her  upon  his  lap, 
and  they  looked  out  into  the  twilight  to- 
gether, as  they  had  done  so  often  in  town. 


DRUMSTICKS.  133 

He  thought  of  those  days  and  wandered  if 
she  was  thinking  of  them  also,  and  almost 
feared  that  she  was,  and  would  speak  of 
them.  The  memory  of  the  trees  in  the 
little  city  park  which  they  had  named, 
and  which  had  been  companions  to  the 
child,  brought  other  memories  which  he 
had  hoped  would  soon  die — to  her — and 
himself.  Darkness  was  gathering,  and 
the  colors  of  the  garden  just  beneath  the 
window  were  fast  blending,  but  far  out  in 
the  dusky  purple  distance  the  tossing 
ocean  gave  out  a  horizon  line  against  a  sky 
with  one  star. 

The  child  lay  very  still  against  his  heart 
for  a  little,  and  Poole  derived  a  certain 
comfort  from  her  presence.  Charlotte 
and  his  own  boy  were  removed  from  him 
by  his  own  acts.  But  here  was  one — a 
Columbine's  baby — who  loved  him,  and 
whose  love  had  come  to  him  through  his 
sin,  and  her  faith  in  him  was  the  one  re- 
deeming feature  of  the  whole  affair. 

Drumsticks  did  not  understand.  And 
never  would  understand.  But  her  love 
soothed  him  by  the  flatter)'  of  its  intuition. 


134  DRUMSTICKS. 

Only  the  love  of  a  little  child,  or  of  a  dog, 
can  comfort  thus. 

"  Do  you  like  apple  marmalade,  Uncle 
Jack?" 

" Awfully!"  He  was  relieved  to  find 
her  thoughts  dwelling  upon  the  near  past 
of  the  nursery  supper  table,  and  not  with 
one  more  remote.  A  happy  child  has 
little  thought  of  anything  but  the  present. 

"  And  did  you  used  to  love  it  when  you 
were  a  little  boy  ?  " 

"  Better  than  anything  except  cakes  and 
honey." 

"  Did  you  spread  it  on  bread  ?" 

"No,  I  was  a  bad  boy,  Drumsticks — I 
wanted  all  jam." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  The  child  was  interested, 
and  reflected  before  she  added  :  "We 
have  it  spread  on  biscuit.  But — you — 
never,  never  could  be  lad,  Uncle  Jack  !  " 

Poole  did  not  care  to  discuss  this,  and 
they  were  again  silent.  As  the  twilight 
deepened,  the  blues  and  greens  blurred 
into  the  gray  of  the  distance,  but  the  star 
shone  with  added  brilliance.  It  was 
watched  nightly  by  Drumsticks,  as  Poole 


DRUMSTICKS.  135 

knew,  but  for  the  first  time  they  watched 
it  together.  Suddenly  a  feather  of  white 
flickered  out  upon  the  tossing  waves  of  the 
sea. 

"  The  sail ! "  cried  Drumsticks,  en- 
chanted, sitting  bolt  upright. 

And  then  she  explained  to  Poole  that 
every  night  a  little  boat  had  started  for 
the  star,  and  had  sailed  away  ever  so  far, 
but  had  never  seemed  to  reach  it  yet.  He 
pretended  a  vast  interest  in  the  attempt, 
and  once  more  they  carried  on  their  fanci- 
ful talk  very  much  as  upon  those  other 
evenings  when  they  had  sat  at  the  window 
of  a  dreary  fourth  floor  front  room.  And 
it  was  Charlotte's  turn  to  listen  as  she 
sat  and  rocked  Poole  the  younger  in  her 
arms. 

"The  little  white  ship  is  sailing,  sail- 
ing-" 

"And  by-and-by— " 

"  It  will  reach  the  kind  white  star," 
murmured  Drumsticks,  sleepily  finishing 
the  sentence. 

Finally,  when  twilight  melted  the  hori- 
zon line  completely,  and  sea  and  sky 


130  DKUMSTICKS. 

seemed  to  mingle,  she  suddenly  declared 
that  it  was  accomplished.  The  ship  had 
at  length  reached  the  star. 

"For  I  saw  it  I"  cried  Drumsticks,  joy- 
fully, and  half  asleep. 

In  after  years  Poole  was  often  to  recall 
this  evening.  And  when  he  did  so,  it  was 
to  think  with  pain  which  was  not  all  bit- 
ter of  the  troubled  sea  of  his  passion,  over 
which  had  danced  such  a  brave  little  craft, 
always  steering  for  the  light,  and  reaching 
it  only  at  that  hour  when  horizons  are  lost 
and  earth  melts  away  into  heaven. 


PAET  H. 

CHAPTER  I. 
WHICH  THE  CHILD   MAKES   A   PEATEE. 


"  They  say  that  God  lives  very  high  ! 
But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 
You  cannot  see  our  God.    And  why  f 

God  is  so  good,  He  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  his  face. 
Like  secrets  kept,  for  love,  untold."1' 

FOE  six  weeks  Fate  wove  peaceful,  happy 
days  into  the  fabric  of  which  she  was  fash- 
ioning Drumsticks'  life.  After  that  her 
inexorable  fingers  insisted  upon  something 
by  way  of  contrast.  Those  who  now  re- 
member those  six  weeks  attribute  to  them 
an  almost  tearful  beauty.  Is  it  not  the 
early  death  of  the  rose  which  gives  to  it  a 
subtle  charm  ?  Fate  dotes  upon  elfin 
arabesques,  and  upon  smooth  backgrounds 
of  white  days  she  loves  to  hurl  grotesque 
blots,  spectral  traceries  of  despair  and 
vice.  And  she  has  a  devilish  art  in  it  all. 

The  day  following  Poole's  advent  into 


138  DEUMSTICKS. 

the  nursery,  Mrs.  Twombly-Applegate  was 
sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  library  which 
was  a  spot  dear  to  her  because  of  its  win- 
dow. There,  when  there  was  sunlight,  she 
found  it;  and  when  there  was  none,  as 
upon  this  day  in  the  middle  of  November, 
it  still  possessed  advantages. 

She  had  just  laid  aside  the  morning  pa- 
per, when  she  distinctly  heard  the  crunch- 
ing of  wheels  upon  the  gravelled  drive. 
She  peered  between  the  ruffled  muslin 
curtains,  being  rewarded  by  the  vision  of 
a  very  elegant  female,  who  stepped  lan- 
guidly from  the  shabby  village  wagon, 
which,  it  was  easy  to  surmise,  had  brought 
her  from  the  station.  She  was  in  travel- 
ling dress,  and  the  light  of  day  failed  to 
discover  a  flaw  in  her  perfect  beauty. 
Mrs.  Applegate  sat  on  calmly  in  her  cor- 
ner, quietly  turning  over  in  her  mind  the 
names  of  various  beauties  of  whom  she 
had  heard.  Then  she  found  time  to  won- 
der if  the  parlor  maid  was  out,  or  perhaps 
dead,  for,  although  the  bell  was  persist- 
ently touched  by  an  exquisite  hand,  the 
electric  current  seemed  flatly  refusing  to 


DRUMSTICKS.  139 

do  its  work.  After  assimilating  the  fact 
that  things  were  not  connecting  in  their 
usual  decorous  and  orderly  manner,  Mrs. 
Applegate  resolved  to  herself  open  the  door. 
Accordingly,  she  acted  upon  her  resolu- 
tion with  much  dignity,  and  herself  ush- 
ered Sophie — for  it  was  Sophie — into  the 
tiny  reception  room.  It  struck  Mrs.  Ap- 
plegate that  her  visitor  seemed  to  take  it 
for  granted  that  she  was  already  known. 
Puzzled  and  pondering,  she  procured  the 
belated  maid,  sending  her  to  call  Char- 
lotte, for  whom  the  stranger  asked,  giving 
no  name.  Mrs.  Applegate's  interest  was 
stimulated  by  the  impression  of  mystery 
which  hung  about  the  call,  even  as  did  a 
faint  suggestion  of  Chypre  exhale  from 
the  fair  unknown's  attire.  Charlotte 
came  immediately,  and,  not  recognizing 
a  voice  which  she  had  heard  but  once  be- 
fore in  the  modulated  murmur  in  which 
it  commented  upon  the  weather  in  re- 
sponse to  Mrs.  Applegate's  sprightly 
originality  upon  that  subject,  she  was  well 
within  the  room  before  she  grasped  the 
situation. 


140  DRUMSTICKS. 

Then,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  she 
accepted  what  was  to  follow,  and  such  a 
pitiful  shock  of  grief  smote  her  with  the 
knowledge  as  to  turn  her  face  as  clear  a 
white  as  the  gown  she  wore.  The  two 
women  looked  at  each  other  steadily,  each 
considering  intently.  And  Mrs.  Apple- 
gate  was  moved  with  a  deep  curiosity. 

Sophie  was  blooming  with  the  fulness 
of  her  magical  beauty,  and  Charlotte's 
sickening  heart  fell  with  the  sight,  in  a 
helpless,  weary,  first  realization  of  the 
might  of  it.  There  again  was  that  peer- 
less face  with  the  ripe  lips,  whose  inimita- 
ble smiles  were  tucked  so  redly  into  their 
corners — that  face — those  lips — which  she 
had  hoped  never  to  see  again  ! 

And  Sophie's  eyes,  with  their  power  of 
asking,  answering,  laughing,  weeping, 
dreaming,  as  no  other  eyes  might  do  ! 

And  Charlotte !  what  had  she  ?  She 
asked  it  of  herself.  Nothing — but  a  pure 
white  life — a  white  heart  incapable  of 
guile,  a  white  soul  gentle  as  heaven,  and 
at  the  present  moment  a  very  white  face 
also. 


DRUMSTICKS.  141 

There  was  so  much  of  tragedy  in  that 
face,  that  even  her  mother  was  aghast  at 
the  sight,  and  never  thought  of  neglected 
introductions. 

And  Sophie  ? 

Sophie  was  nattered,  and  amused,  im- 
mediately achieving  the  greatest  bit  of 
acting  of  her  life. 

"  My  child  ! "  she  stammered,  going 
first  red,  and  then  pale. 

Mrs.  Applegate  nearly  fell  out  of  her 
chair. 

Sophie  was  thinking  :  "  I  believe  the 
poor  fool  thinks  I've  come  after  him  !  " 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  Sophie 
was  where  she  was  because  of  an  idle 
hour,  a  bump  of  curiosity,  and  a  spice 
of  malice.  Poole  had  piqued  her  by  the 
absoluteness  with  which  he  had  dropped 
out  of  her  life.  And  she  had  conceived 
the  idea  that  a  mother's  longing  to  see 
once  more  the  child  she  had  renounced 
from  most  unselfish  motives  would  be  con- 
sidered a  fitting  and  proper  explanation 
for  a  visit  which  would  at  the  same  time 
recall  her  to  his  mind.  He  would  be  com- 


142  DRUMSTICKS. 

pelled  to  think  of  her.  Why  should  she 
wish  him  to  do  so  ?  Let  him  who  under- 
stands her  class  decide.  And  she  felt 
that  she  could  not  enter  his  thoughts  with- 
out stirring  them.  And  when  a  man's 
thoughts  are  stirred  by  such  a  woman — 
what  then  ?  She  did  not  want  him  back 
again.  No.  But  she  refused  to  be  for- 
gotten. 

So — she  had  stammered  very  prettily — 
"  My  child  !  n 

"  This  visit  was  not  anticipated,"  said 
Charlotte,  wondering  if  it  were  not  all  a 
bad — a  very  bad — dream.  She  came  for- 
ward a  step  or  so,  clasping  her  hands 
laxly  in  front  of  her,  and  seeming  to 
ignore  a  chair  which  stood  at  her  side. 
Sophie  noted  the  fact  that  the  wife  de- 
clined to  sit  in  her  presence. 

It  was  a  small  peg  to  hang  life  and 
death  upon,  yet,  perhaps  if  Charlotte  had 
seemed  less  icily  superior  all  might  have 
been  different.  But  it  was  as  it  was,  and  the 
consequences  have  worked  themselves  out. 

«I — want  to  see  her — Drumsticks.  I 
— my — is  it  so  strange  ?" 


DRUMSTICKS.  143 

"  Very  natural,  I'm  sure  ! "  murmured 
Mrs.  Applegate,  feebly  resolving  to  be 
mistress  of  the  occasion.  The  might  of 
the  encounter — woman  to  woman — she 
felt  dimly,  but  the  extreme  beauty  of  the 
person  who  was  evidently  the  mysterious 
mother  of  the  alien  Drumsticks  staggered 
all  of  her  previous  conceptions  of  her  per- 
sonality. 

This  the  mother  of  a  child  who  had  no 
other  name  than  that  of  Drumsticks  ? 
This  !  This  youthful,  magnificent  creat- 
ure !  Where,  then,  was  the  poverty  which 
alone  should  have  parted  them  ?  She  rec- 
ognized that  she — Mrs.  Twombly- Apple- 
gate — had  been  insulted  by  being  kept  in 
the  dark.  And  from  the  moment  of  that 
recognition  she  ranged  herself  in  line 
with  Sophie.  So  great  is  feminine  spite. 

"  Drumsticks  !  You  want  to  see  her  f  " 
faltered  Charlotte. 

"I  repeat — is  it  strange  ?"  Sophie's 
voice  became  mournfully  musical. 

At  this  moment  Life  cracked  a  danger- 
ous joke.  Drumsticks  ran  into  the  room. 

We  all  know  that  those  dramatic  inci- 


144  DEUMSTICKS. 

dents  which  in  a  play  are  most  criticised 
as  unreal  are  exactly  those  which  in  life 
most  often  occur.  The  happenings  in 
this  small  tale  are  exaggerated  ?  They 
are  forced  ?  Unnatural  ?  Very  well.  You 
are  mistaken.  For  the  story  of  Drum- 
sticks is  a  true  one. 

And  so  the  child — exactly  as  if  it  were 
all  in  a  play — ran  into  the  room  at  the 
critical  moment. 

Seeing  before  her  Sophie,  she  stopped 
short,  and,  without  a  word,  turned  trou- 
bled, brilliant  eyes  full  upon  Charlotte, 
like  those  of  a  small  deer  led  by  cruel 
lights,  and  asking  dumbly  of  the  hunter 
the  reason  of  its  death  pang. 

"Come  to  me,  Drumsticks  I"  said 
Charlotte,  moved  to  extremest  pity  by  the 
sight  of  those  eyes. 

"  Come  to  me,  Drumsticks  ! "  called 
Sophie,  winningly,  to  the  child,  in  quite 
the  same  breath. 

Then  was  the  fact  that  things  go  easily 
wrong  emphasized.  For  Drumsticks  ig- 
nored her  mother,  and  ran  straight  into 
the  open  arms  of  Charlotte,  kicking  away 


DRUMSTICKS.  145 

a  rug  in  the  trip,  shocking  the  sensibili- 
ties of  Mrs.  Applegate,  enraging  Sophie, 
and  hastening  her  fate  with  running 
feet. 

A  savage  flame  leaped  into  the  pupils  of 
Sophie's  lovely  orbs.  At  that  second, 
born  of  an  animal  jealousy,  came  the  re- 
solve to  claim  the  child  again.  Why  not  ? 
There  had  been  nothing  legal  about  the 
adoption  of  Drumsticks.  Poole  had 
dreaded  the  publicity,  the  ripple  of  com- 
ment, which  would  have  followed  making 
it  such,  and  had  trusted  to  the  relief  he 
knew  Sophie  experienced  in  ridding  her- 
self of  a  charge  which  had  ever  been  un- 
welcome. But  he  had  not  calculated 
upon  the  shifting  tides  of  a  woman's 
whim — 

"As  the  sunned  bosom  of  a  humming  bird 
At  each  pant  lifts  some  fiery  hue — 
Fierce  gold,  bewildering  green,  or  blue  ; 
The  same,  yet  ever  new." 

The  complexity  of  wheels  within  wheels 
is  as  nothing  to  the  purposes  set  in  motion 
when  the  wife  and  the  other  woman  meet. 


146  DEUMSTICKS. 

And  from  the  moment  when  these  two 
met  thus  the  child's  fate  was  as  a  straw 
borne  about  upon  rushing  currents  of 
feminine  emotion. 

As  for  Sophie,  she  arose,  exclaiming, 
after  the  fashion  of  a  female  David  :  "  My 
child  !  My  child  !  "  And  she  fell  upon 
the  gentle  Charlotte,  and  the  terrified 
Drumsticks,  tearing  her  child  from  those 
other  more  tender  arms,  straining  her  to  a 
maternal  embrace  which  held  more  ele- 
ments within  it  of  jealous  anger  than  of 
maternity. 

And  Mrs.  Applegate,  looking  on,  sym- 
pathized with  Sophie. 

"A  mother's  rights  are  sacred,"  she 
breathed  out. 

Sophie  was  weeping  hysterical  tears, 
while  more  quiet  drops  were  rolling  over 
Charlotte's  pale  cheeks.  But  Drumsticks 
never  cried ;  only  looked  from  the  en- 
closure of  her  mother's  arms  like  a  bird  in 
a  snare,  and  besought  dumbly,  though 
with  struggles  which  but  hastened  the 
now  inevitable  end,  that  Charlotte  take 
her  to  her  heart  once  more.  But  that 


DRUMSTICKS.  147 

tender  and  pure  refuge  was  lost  to  Drum- 
sticks. 

"I  had  not  bargained  that  you  should 
prejudice  my  child  against  me ! "  wept 
Sophie. 

And  Charlotte,  shaking  like  a  leaf, 
could  find  no  words,  and  so  said  nothing. 
What  could  she  say  ? 

"And  I  shall  take  her  home  with  me 
again  — immediately  —  immediately —  do 
you  hear  ?  "  There  was  outraged  mother- 
hood in  every  tone.  Mrs.  Applegate  left 
the  room  hastily. 

"Will  you  not  wait — until — "  Char- 
lotte faltered,  with  white  lips,  unable  to 
finish. 

' '  Until  he  comes  ?  "  finished  the  other, 
with  flaming  eyes.  "  What  under  heaven 
could  he  do  about  it  ?  If  I  am  determined 
to  take  her  away,  how  could  he  prevent  it  ? 
It  was  only  an  experiment  anyway  !  I 
thought  I  would  try  and  live  without  her  ! 
But  I  cannot !  One  would  think  I  was 
dragging  her  off  to  a  prison  ! "  Then, 
directing  the  torrent  of  her  remarks  to  the 
child,  she  added  :  "  Drumsticks,  darling  ! 


148  DRUMSTICKS. 

have  you  forgotten  your  own,  own 
Sophie?  " 

Drumsticks,  darling,  had  not  forgotten. 
If  she  had  it  might  have  been  easier. 
Suddenly  a  strange  thing  happened. 
Drumsticks  spoke  for  the  first  time, 
enunciating  each  word  distinctly,  yet  in  a 
low  voice  : 

"  Please,  God,  make  Sophie  go  away  !  " 

Then  she  waited.  There  was  a  silence 
as  of  death  in  the  room,  and  in  that 
silence  something  died.  It  was  the  simple 
faith  of  a  little  child.  For  the  stillness 
in  which  she  waited  the  answer  to  her 
prayer  was  broken  by  the  reappearance  of 
Mrs.  Applegate.  In  her  hands  she  bore 
the  ermine-lined  coat  and  white-feathered 
hat  which  Drumsticks  had  worn  when  she 
came  to  them. 

"  As  a  mother — I  shall  defend  a  mother 
— against  the  well-meant  but  ill-judged 
interference  of  my  own  child.  It  has  been 
a  mistake  from  first  to  last !  All  a  mis- 
take !  It  goes  against  nature's  law  to  at- 
tempt the  separation  of  a  mother  and 
child.  I  never  liked  it !  But  I  was  not 


DRUMSTICKS.  149 

listened  to  !  And  now  yon  see  !"  Here 
Mrs.  Applegate  turned  upon  the  cowering 
Charlotte  with  noble  indignation.  "  It 
has  been  too  silly  !  And  the  only  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  let  her  go — after  spoiling 
her — yes — spoiling  her  !  That  ridiculous 
prayer  !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  ! 
I  believe  the  child  expected  an  immediate 
answer  !  As  if  God  had  nothing  better 
to  do ! " 

Drumsticks  was  eying  her  hat  and 
coat. 

"  There  isn't  any  God,"  said  Drum- 
sticks, reflectively,  "  any  more'n  a  Santa 
Glaus.  It's  all  lies  !  If  there  was  any 
God,  He'd  take  better  care  of  little  girls — 
like  me.  An'  He'd  kill  you,"  she  added, 
frankly,  gazing  feverishly  at  Mrs.  Apple- 
gate. 

' '  You  see  ! "  ejaculated  that  individual, 
as  if  her  foregoing  remarks  had  been 
proven  by  this  last  utterance  of  the  child, 
and  tumbling,  an  indignant  heap,  into  the 
nearest  chair. 

Charlotte  fell  upon  her  knees  by  Drum- 
sticks' side,  trying  to  help  her,  with 


150  DRUMSTICKS. 

trembling  hands,  in  the  effort  to  button 
her  coat  and  adjust  the  feathered  hat. 
But  the  child  would  have  none  of  her 
help,  proudly  persisting  in  her  attempt  to 
accomplish  all  without  assistance,  although 
Charlotte  clung  to  her  so  that  at  length 
her  arms  were  about  her  and  her  wet 
cheek  against  the  small,  stern,  set  face. 

"  Dear,  dear  Drumsticks,  God  will  take 
care  of  you  ! "  she  whispered.  "  Believe 
it,  oh,  believe  it !  You  are  His  little  girl, 
wherever  you  may  be ;  and  He  does  love 
you!" 

Drumsticks  was  silent. 

"  Sweetheart,  you  believe  your  Aunt 
Charlotte,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  You  aren't  my  Aunt  Charlotte  at  all ! 
Nothin'  is  true!  Everything's  lies." 

For  a  moment  the  two  white  faces, 
woman  and  child,  looked  straight  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Charlotte  looked  away  first. 

"Don't  you  want  to  say  good-bye  to 
baby  ? "  Mrs.  Applegate  asked,  not  un- 
kindly. 

"  No  ! "  cried  the  child.  But,  for  the 
first  time,  her  lips  quivered. 


DBUMSTICKS.  151 

Then,  in  the  face  of  as  golden  a  sun  as 
ever  gilded  the  roofs  of  happy  homes,  the 
child  of  a  Columbine  and  a  Pierrot  was 
taken  away  into  the  shadows  of  her  moth- 
er's past.  Before  she  left,  she  did  consent 
to  kiss  Charlotte,  and  kissed  her  quite  as 
firmly  as  a  child  was  ever  known  to  kiss 
a  beloved  one  whom  she  was  leaving  forever. 
Of  the  two  characters,  hers  was  the  stronger. 
AVhat  a  woman  she  would  have  made  ! 

"One  must  think  of  the  servants ! 
Come  !  Come  ! "  said  Mrs.  Applegate, 
briskly  shaking  Charlotte  by  the  shoul- 
der, to  recall  her  to  the  proprieties,  after 
Sophie  had  driven  away  with  the  child. 
And  she  was  right.  One  must  always 
think  of  the  servants.  And  so,  finally, 
Mrs.  Applegate  had  it  all  her  own  way. 

' '  Oh,  what  will  Jack  say?"  cried 
Charlotte  between  sobs.  "  Will  he  blame 
me?" 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed ! "  re- 
marked her  mother,  and  there  was  a 
wicked  sparkle  in  that  estimable  woman's 
eye  which  hinted  of  suspicion  grown  ban- 
yan-like in  an  hour. 


PART  II. 

CHAPTER  II. 
IN  WHICH  THE  GOOD  WOMAN  LEARNS  TO  LIE. 


"  Pure,  so  pure  !  and  me  bemoiled 
Loathly  as  loathed  vermin,  just 
As  weak  souls  are  left  of  lust 
Loveless,  low,  and  soiled.''' 

THAT  night  Poole  stood,  wretched  man, 
and  heard  how  another  chapter  had  been 
added  to  the  story.  Charlotte  managed 
to  give  details  quite  as  they  occurred, 
and  that  Mrs.  Applegate  interpolated 
glances,  pregnant,  and  near  their  confine- 
ment, with  meaning,  had  not  escaped  him. 

His  first  impulse  had  been  to  return  to 
town,  and,  seeing  Sophie,  to  have  endeav- 
ored a  course  of  reasoning.  But  Mrs. 
Applegate's  eye  had  fixed,  as  with  a 
lance,  such  a  thought  of  action  on  his 
part.  Her  eye  evidently  expected  that 
mch  would  be  his  first  suggestion,  and 
what  her  eye  expected  her  tongue  was 
ready  for.  If  Poole  had  been  able  to  see 
Charlotte  in  private,  it  might  have  re- 


DRUMSTICKS.  153 

suited  in  his  following  this  course,  but 
hours  of  privacy  with  his  wife  were  as  if 
they  never  had  been.  And  certain  it  is 
that,  with  the  memory  of  Sophie's  won- 
derful beauty  fresh  upon  her,  she  would 
have  hesitated  to  subject  her  erring  one 
again  to  its  influences,  although  she  might 
have  done  so— God  knows — with  utter 
safety. 

The  nursery  was  not  quiet  that  night. 
The  baby  missed  Drumsticks  and  fretted 
for  her.  And  so  also  did  the  man  who 
walked  the  garden  paths,  with  his  cigar 
for  company,  hoping  that  Charlotte  would 
come  to  him  there  in  the  crisp  November 
night.  But  she  did  not. 

This  last  chapter  of  the  whole  hateful 
affair  had  brought  all  the  suffering  of  that 
first  knowledge  again  to  that  gentle 
woman.  Perhaps,  also,  a  certain  amount 
of  imagination  had  been  born  within  her 
from  the  mere  force  of  Sophie's  extraor- 
dinary charm.  For  Sophie  had  charm. 
She  had  not  appeared  as  resistless  upon  the 
first  and  only  other  time  when  Charlotte 
had  seen  her.  Upon  this  night  of  Drum- 


154  DRUMSTICKS. 

sticks*  absence,  the  pain  of  pity  was  ob- 
scured by  the  pangs  of  jealousy.  That 
horrid  other  woman  !  Why,  oh,  why 
should  she  have  been  gifted  with  such 
diabolic  beauty  ?  And  Charlotte,  in  her 
splendid  and  silent  strength  to  suffer  and 
be  silent,  at  length  broke  down.  "Would 
the  other  woman  steal  him  once  more  ? 
Was  not  that  perhaps  Sophie's  object  in 
taking  the  child  away  ?  It  appeared  that 
there  was  very  little  to  be  said  upon  the  mat- 
ter between  John  Adzit  Poole  and  she  that 
was  his  lawful  wife,  after  the  first  brief 
account  of  the  taking  away  of  Drumsticks. 
They  seemed  to  scan  each  other's  faces 
from  either  side  of  a  gulf.  When  the 
child  went,  she  left  a  silence.  And  there 
was  nothing  to  do  about  it  now,  except  to 
live  right  on  and  let  the  days  make  un- 
eventful history. 

And  the  only  one  who  was  happy  wrote 
her  name  Applegate.  And  as  her  happi- 
ness consisted  in  the  luxury  of  intact 
virtue— from  her  own  point  of  view — that 
was  to  be  expected.  The  baby  went  on 
persisting  in  fretting  after  Drumsticks. 


DRUMSTICKS.  155 

Clara  looked  curious  and  sorrowful  in  a 
mild  way.  Charlotte  was  full  of  a  bad 
dream  that  she  might  have  opposed  So- 
phie more  vigorously,  and  perhaps  more 
successfully.  As  for  Poole,  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult, indeed,  to  characterize  his  discontent 
with  all  things — beginning  with  himself. 

And  so  the  days  and  weeks  went  by, 
and  seemed  to  halt  and  limp,  yet  the 
story  was  even  then  leaping  to  its  finish. 

One  evening,  after  the  days  had  car- 
ried the  affair  into  December,  a  wire  came 
for  Poole,  just  at  the  dinner  hour.  The 
bit  of  paper  was  brought  to  him  as  the 
three  were  seated  at  table.  He  laid  his 
oyster  fork  aside,  his  napkin  over  one 
knee,  and  turned  his  chair  to  get  the 
light  of  the  candles.  Then,  without  a 
comment,  he  read  and  re-read  the  few 
words.  Charlotte  saw  the  tremble  of  his 
hand,  and  the  appeal  in  his  eyes.  Char- 
lotte's intuitions  had  become  sharpened. 
With  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Applegate,  who 
was  devoting  an  absorbed  attention  to  her 
plate,  she  arose  and  left  the  table.  Poole 
followed  her  upstairs  into  the  room  which 


156  DEUMSTICKS. 

had  once  been  theirs,  but  of  late,  Char- 
lotte's. Once  within  the  room,  she  turned, 
clasping  her  hands,  as  if  in  an  agony  of 
doubt  and  anxiety. 

"  You  have  been  sent  for  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  yon  will  go  ?"  Could  Charlotte 
threaten? 

"  Bead." 

This  is  what  Charlotte  read  : 

"  The  child  is  dying,  and  asks  for  you. 
Can  you  come  to-night  ?  S.  S." 

She  looked  from  the  telegram  to  the  man 
before  her.  His  eyes  were  staring  out  of 
the  window  into  the  chill  of  a  December 
night,  which  had  frosted  the  pane.  There 
was  a  brilliant  moon,  and  all  the  leafless 
shrubs  of  the  garden  seemed  magnified, 
as  with  a  lens.  Perhaps  a  tear  did  it. 

Charlotte  walked  straight  to  Poole, 
pointing  with  one  finger  to  the  yellow  slip 
of  paper. 

"  Do  you  believe  this  thing — to  be  true  ?  " 

He  seemed  surprised.  ' '  I  see  no  reason 
to  doubt  it.  Surely — " 


DRUMSTICKS.  157 

"Surely?  Surely?  Of  what  are  we 
sure?  What  did  Drumsticks  say?  'Every- 
thing is  a  lie. '  And  I  have  heard  the  words 
ever  since  ! "  Charlotte's  tones  were  low 
— as  low  as  one's  breath,  and  as  wildly 
passionate  as  if  her  name  were  not  Char- 
lotte. "  Look  at  me !  Look  at  me,  John 
Poole  !  Look  in  my  eyes  !  Do  you  love 
this  woman  still  ?  Are  you  yearning  for 
her  beauty?  God  knows — I  do  not  won- 
der ! — when — when — I  look  at  myself!" 

Poole  remained  silent  and  aghast  before 
this — the  new  Charlotte.  She  walked  the 
room,  and  as  she  did  so  she  threw  her  arms 
over  her  head  in  an  agony  of  shame  at  her 
loss  of  control.  If  she  had  been  less  self- 
controlled,  she  might  from  the  first  have 
been  more  human.  And  if  in  those  other 
days  which  had  gone  before  she  had  been 
more  human,  she  might  have  understood 
her  husband  better.  And  he  might  have 
been  better  able  to  resist  the  very  human 
sweetness  tucked  into  the  corners  of 
Sophie's  charmed  lips. 

But  Charlotte  was  human  now. 

And  in   that    moment — a  moment  of 


158  DRUMSTICKS. 

great  perplexity  and  misery — Poole  felt  a 
hope  born  that  some  day — it  might  be 
years  from  that — she  would  give  her  dear, 
warm,  now  human  self  to  him,  and  that  if 
they  could  but  forget,  they  might  be  happy. 

But  the  time  for  forgetting  was  not 
yet.  To-night — there  was  Drumsticks. 

Suddenly  Charlotte's  mood  broke  into 
a  shower  of  tears. 

"Do  yon  know  what  I  feel?"  she 
asked,  piteously.  "  Oh,  God !  Jack  ! 
The  shame  of  it  !  It  is  jealousy  !  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  other  day  how — how 
desirable — she  was  !  And  for  the  first 
time  the  knowledge  crept  into  my  mind 
of  how  you  must — you  must — " 

Poole  seized  her  by  the  shoulders, 
alert  and  resolute. 

"  Listen  ! "  said  he,  "  Charlotte— I  will 
not  go  one  step  if  you  do  not  wish  me  to 
go  !  I  will  not  go  even  to  Drumsticks  ! 
But  listen — I  believe  it  is  as  she  says — 
I  believe  that  something  has  happened  to 
the  child.  I  do  not  believe  this  to  be  a 
ruse,  as  you  seem  to  suspect — nor  will  you 
when  you  come  to  yourself.  You  will  see 


DRUMSTICKS.  159 

then — that — if — that  woman — had  wanted 
to  see  me — which  she  does  not  —  why 
should  she  ? — she  would  have  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  me  in.  town. 

"  And  she  has  not  done  so.  I  have  not 
seen  her — nor  have  I  tried  to  do  so.  And 
she  has  not  tried  to  see  me  !  And  of  her 
fatal  beauty  of  which  you  make  so  much  to- 
night— it  is  of  no  value  to  me  !  My  heart 
is  full  of  you  !  Oh,  believe  me,  Charlotte  ! 
I  am  unlike  other  men  in  this  —  that 
there  has  been  but  two  women  in  my  life  ! 
One  I  loved — still  love — and  always  shall 
love  !  That  woman  is  yourself  !  Don't 
you  Tcnow  this  ?  The  other — she — it  is 
hard  to  explain — but  you  were  so — much 
an  angel !  And  I  was  so  much  a  man — 
beast,  if  you  prefer  it  !  And — but — I 
never  loved  her  !  Never  !  Never  !  Never  !  " 

Doubts  will  always  return  to  a  heart 
they  have  once  frequented — it  is  their 
birthright.  And  doubts  would  return  to 
Charlotte's  fond  heart,  but  at  that  mo- 
ment they  fled  in  an  unruly  body,  to- 
tally routed  by  the  earnestness  with  which 
Poole  flung  his  little  say  at  her.  It  was 


160  DRUMSTICKS. 

not  an  original  speech.  Many  men  have 
used  the  same  words  before,  and  if  not  the 
same  words,  the  same  meaning.  And  as 
each  has  thought  himself  alone  in  the  joy  of 
his  sin,  so  each  has  fancied  himself  alone 
in  the  honest  misery  of  his  repentance. 

"Where  is  the  man  who  has  not  re- 
pented ? 

There  is  a  felicity  of  confession,  and  of 
absolution,  and  Poole  began  to  see  that  the 
latter  would  some  day  be  his  at  the  fair, 
innocent  hands  of  his  sweet  Charlotte. 
But  expiation  belonged  to  him  now. 

"And — as  if  your  soul  were  naked — do 
you  swear — that  you  go  only  to  the  child  ? 
Are  you  not  influenced  by  thoughts  of  Tier 
— oh — oh  ! " — and  Charlotte  fell  weeping 
once  more,  only  suddenly  to  desist,  de- 
manding firmly  : 

"  How  would  you  like  it  ?  Tell  me — 
how  would  you  like  it  ?  Try — just  try — 
and  put  yourself  in  my  place  \" 

But  this  adoption  of  the  woman's  point 
of  view  is  a  thing  no  man  has  ever  been 
able  to  make. 

Suddenly    Charlotte     sprang    at    him. 


DRUMSTICKS.  161 

"  What  are  you  sitting  there  for,  Jack  ?" 
she  asked  with  inconsistency.  He  had 
settled  once  more  into  an  attitude  of  deep 
dejection  upon  the  side  of  the  bed.  "Why 
don't  yon  hurry  ?  What  if  Drumsticks — 
oh,  it  cannot  be  !  God  would  not  let 
her  die  with  that  rebel  heart !  Hurry  ! 
Hurry  !  Go  to  her  !  Oh,  I  wish  I  could — " 

And  then  she  rushed  for  his  travelling 
bag,  and  herself  helped  him  tumble  a  few 
necessities  into  its  depths.  He  consulted 
his  watch,  lifting  his  eyebrows  to  look  from 
beneath  his  eyelids  after  the  fashion  of  an 
inebriate.  Knowledge  was  coming  to  Poole 
— knowledge  of  his  Charlotte — and  he  was 
a  bit  drunk  with  the  whirl  of  it. 

"  And  you  are  willing  I  should  go  ?"  he 
asked  at  last,  standing  on  the  porch  waiting 
for  the  trap  which  was  to  carry  him  to  the 
station  in  time  to  catch  the  8:15  train  to 
town. 

"  There  could  be  no  choice  !  I  am  will- 
ing— and  I  am  not  willing  ! " 

Charlotte  was  thinking  again  of  the 
beautiful  mouth — that  mocking  mouth — 
and  exaggerating  to  herself,  as  a  jealous 


162  DRUMSTICKS. 

woman  will,  its  power  over  the  man  she 
loved. 

"  Good-bye  ! "  he  said  solemnly,  and  his 
eyes  glistened  in  the  moonlight  as  he  looked 
her  full  in  the  face. 

"You  will  wire?" 

"  Either  wire  or  come/' 

"And  you  will  come  back  to  me  ?" 

"  Can  you  doubt  it,  my  wife  ?" 

And  then  for  the  first  time  in  all  these 
many  weeks  Poole  kissed  his  dear  Charlotte. 

Wheels  jarred  into  the  duet,  and  he  was 
away — gone  once  more  to  the  other  woman. 

Not  yet — not  even  yet — did  a  surge  of 
anxious  tenderness  for  that  Drumsticks 
who  was  dying  overflow  Charlotte's 
heart.  It  was  all  a  great  whirl  of  maddest 
jealousy.  That  woman — oh,  that  woman  ! 

And  the  moon,  with  grim  self-immo- 
lation, spitted  herself  at  the  moment  upon 
a  distant  village  spire,  and  there  she  stuck, 
until  Charlotte,  red  of  eye  and  white  of 
face,  went  in  and  shut  the  door.  And 
shutting  it,  shut  out  all  the  world  except 
her  boy,  and  Mrs.  Applegate,  whom  she 
met  in  the  hall. 


DRUMSTICKS.  163 

"Would  it  be  proper  forme  to  ask  what 
all  this  means  ?  These  tears  !  John  gone 
to  town  without  his  dinner !  "What  can 
have  called  him  away  in  such  a  hurry  ? " 

There  was  an  icy  incredulity  in  the 
manner  with  which  Mrs.  Applegate  accept- 
ed Charlotte's  rather  vague  explanations. 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  ?" 

"  Please  don't— meddle  ! " 

"  Charlotte  !     Is  this  my  daughter  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  it  is." 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  !  I  know  it  has 
something  to  do  with  that  woman — and 
that  extraordinary  child  ! " 

Mrs.  Applegate  followed  Charlotte, 
whose  flying  feet  were  carrying  her  to  the 
nursery.  As  she  went  she  hurled  these 
astonishing  statements  over  her  shoulder 
at  her  mother : 

"It  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
either  !  I  saw  the  despatch.  It  was  a 
purely  business  matter." 

The  knowledge  that  she  was  now  a  liar 
seemed  to  afford  Charlotte  a  strange  satis- 
faction. She  felt  herself  to  be  more  like 
other  people.  With  a  half-smile  she 


164  DRUMSTICKS. 

leaned  above  her  boy  in  his  cradle  and 
whispered  : 

"You  have  a  wicked,  wicked  mother/' 

Then,  born  of  her  own  lie,  for  sinners 

must  forgive  to  be  logical,  Charlotte  felt 

her  heart  flooded  with  a  divine  mercy  for 

that  more  virile  sinner,  the  boy's  father. 

It  was  the  wrong  time  for  Mrs.  Apple- 
gate  to  introduce  the  subject  upon  which 
she  had  been  meditating  for  some  time. 
But  she  did  so. 

"  Charlotte,"  she  began  in  a  low  voice, 
after  watching  Clara  pass  out  of  the  nur- 
sery, and  by  casting  a  shadow  upon  an 
opposite  wall  of  the  hallway  give  evidence 
that  she  had  passed  down  the  stairway — 
"  Charlotte,  my  poor  child,  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  strange  suspicions  lurk  in  my 
mind  in  regard  to  that  woman — and  that 
child." 

"  In  regard  to  Jack's  interest  in  them, 
you  mean  ?  " 

"I  dare  not  put  it  into  words." 
"Then  you  do  mean  that,  mother?" 
"  You  must  have  thought  of  it  yourself ! 
But  you  seem  to  lack — spirit!" 


DRUMSTICKS.  165 

"Do  I?" 

"It  would  seem  so.  Have  you — have 
you  asked  Jack  if  there  has — " 

"No/* 

"Not  that  he  would  tell  you.  Men 
are— " 

"That  will  do!"  cried  Charlotte, 
fiercely. 

"  Eemember  I  am  your  mother ! "  aghast, 
and  rising  hastily  to  her  feet. 

"  You  are.  I  cannot  forget  it.  Listen! 
Jack  never  saw — never  even  saw — the 
mother  of  Drumsticks.  It  was  through 
her — sister — er — that  we  met  the  child — 
and  fancied  her — and  loved  her — and — 
But,"  said  Charlotte,  suddenly  changing 
her  tone — "  but  if  she  had  been  his  mistress 
— if — if — Drumsticks  had  been  his  own 
child — if  he  had  cruelly  deceived  me  in 
the  matter — I  should  forgive  him  all — so 
there!" 

All  of  which  goes  to  prove  that  Charlotte 
was  not  strong-minded — God  bless  her. 

"  Well!  I  never  !  I  never,  never  heard 
anything  like  that !  My  own  child,  too  !  " 
ejaculated  Mrs.  Applegate,  backing  out  of 


166  DRUMSTICKS. 

the  room.  Mrs.  Applegate  was  in  some 
ways  quite  wonderful,  but  after  all,  the 
most  wonderful  thing  of  all  was  that  she 
should  be  the  mother  of  Charlotte. 

"And,"  pursued  Charlotte,  superbly, 
"if  it  were  true,  which  it  isn't,  I  hope 
I  should  be  big  enough  and  sensible 
enough  to  remember  that  men  are  alto- 
gether different  from  women — and  have 
more  temptations — and — and  ought  to  be 
forgiven/' 

Here  she  shut  the  nursery  door  upon 
that  more  advanced  woman,  Mrs.  Apple- 
gate.  Then  she  went  and  cried  her  heart 
out  over  the  child  of  an  erring  father,  and 
cooed  to  him,  and  moaned  out  these  con- 
tradictory sentiments : 

"He'll  never,  never  be  true  to  your 
poor  hideous  mother,  dearie  !  And  she — 
oh  !  oh  !  so  beautiful  "  (sobs),  "  and  such 
lips  ! " 

And  that  night  Charlotte  slept  in  the 
nursery,  when  she  did  sleep,  which  was 
not  long  at  a  time.  And  a  gale  sprang 
up  in  the  night,  and  the  Four  Winds 
blew  greatly,  while  the  little  house  rocked 


DRUMSTICKS.  167 

like  a  cradle.  Charlotte  lay  with  her 
child  safe  upon  the  haven  of  her  breast, 
and  thought  a  little  on  the  poor  lives 
which  were  beiiig  swallowed  by  the 
hungry  waves  at  sea,  and  much  upon  the 
fact  that,  on  a  wild  night  like  this,  it 
would  seem  easy  for  a  dear  man  like  her 
Jack  to  lose  his  soul.  And  especially  easy 
would  it  be  if  the  devil  to  whom  he  should 
lose  it  had  red,  red  lips,  with  wonderful 
meanings  tucked  into  their  corners.  Es- 
pecially, again,  would  he  be  in  danger  if 
he  should  happen  to  have  a  very  plain, 
ordinary,  simple,  ignorant  wife  at  home, 
like — herself. 


PART    II. 

CHAPTER  m. 

IN  WHICH  THE  WOMAN  THINKS  ALOUD  A  LITTLE. 


"A  woman  sitting  in  a  silent  room 
Full  of  white  flowers  that  moved  and  made  no  sound.' ' 

So  Charlotte  found  herself  alone  the 
following  day — alone  with  her  thoughts, 
which  were,  indeed,  like  white  flowers,  as 
they  were  chiefly  of  a  sweet  child.  Dead 
birds,  who  had  been  the  sport  of  the  last 
night's  storm,  were  not  more  broken  of 
limb  than  was  Charlotte  in  spirit  when 
daybreak  found  her.  "With  the  first  light 
she  arose,  leaving  her  boy  asleep,  with 
crumpled  fists  close-pressed  beneath  his 
plump  chin.  She  wandered  about  the 
quiet  house,  still  now,  after  the  noises  of 
the  night.  Finally,  she  went  to  Poole's 
room,  and,  wrapping  herself  in  his  wool 
bath  robe,  threw  open  the  east  window 
and  looked  out  at  the  new  day  to  which 
earth  was  giving  birth.  Flats  of  marsh 
land  were  bristling  with  pink  rushes, 
gleaming  swart  yet  glowing  out  of  the 


DEUMSTICKS.  169 

early  gray  morning.  The  huge  sails  of 
windmills  which  had  so  hoarsely  croaked 
throughout  the  night  were  hushed,  for 
the  winds  had  died  away.  The  sounds  of 
the  dismal  night  had  given  place  to  the 
voices  which  hail  the  birth  of  each  new 
day.  All  the  earth  seemed  filled  with  a 
joyful  promise  of  fresh  life  to  be.  Yes, 
it  was  so.  The  night  was  over ;  others 
would  come,  but  not  that  one.  And  now 
it  was  day.  Charlotte  heard  the  servants 
creep  about,  stealthily  preparing  the  com- 
forts of  the  breakfast  hour.  And,  amid 
the  comforting  sounds  of  normal,  common- 
place life,  something  seemed  to  say  to 
Charlotte  that  all  would  yet  be  well.  Did 
not  day  follow  night  ?  And  ease,  pain  ? 

"  Well,  all  will  be  well,"  thought  Char- 
lotte. And  then — thought  of  Drumsticks. 

For  the  first  time,  a  keen  realization  of 
Drumsticks'  danger  struck  her.  With 
the  daylight  her  own  agony  of  jealousy 
seemed  lessened.  But,  Drumsticks  !  That 
dear  little  one  was  dying — was  perhaps  al- 
ready dead.  And  her  soul — was  it  well 
with  that  soul  ? 


170  DRUMSTICKS. 

Charlotte  felt  herself  seized  with  emo- 
tions of  pity,  wonder,  doubt,  and  then 
faith.  What  had  she  taught  the  child  ? 
That  to  ask  was  to  receive.  And  Drum- 
sticks had  believed  her.  Charlotte  had 
thought  she  herself  believed  what  she 
taught.  One  night  she  had  heard  the  child 
pray  for  another  rose  on  the  bush  under 
the  dining-room  window.  And  she  had 
felt  a  guilty  responsibility  and  a  decided 
lack  of  faith,  it  being  then  November. 
And  when  before  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing Drumsticks  had  calmly  announced  that 
she  wanted  to  run  out-of-doors  for  a  mo- 
ment, "just  to  pick  a  rose  she  had  asked 
God  for,"  Charlotte  had  suffered  from 
theological  scare. 

And  when  Drumsticks,  no  whit  amazed, 
had  entered  the  room  with  the  rose,  a 
sickly  wonder  of  a  Long  Island  autumn, 
she  had  not  laid  the  rose  to  Providence, 
but  to  an  astounding  climate.  She  had 
drawn  a  long  breath  of  relief,  and  had  fol- 
lowed it  by  a  smile,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye, 
for  the  child's  simplicity  of  faith. 

Of  this  teaching  is  the  mill  which  will 


DRUMSTICKS.  171 

grind  out  cynics.  The  most  of  us  who 
have  rubbed  elbows  with  experience  have 
come  to  believe  in  spiritual  blessings,  ac- 
corded by  a  spiritual  Father  to  a  some- 
thing which  partakes  of  His  own  nature, 
and  which  we  carry  about  mysteriously 
enough  in  the  pocket  of  a  very  tangible 
physical  self.  But  we  teach  the  children 
to  expect  material  good,  because  we  find 
it  difficult  to  explain  matters  to  the  young 
human  animal.  And  we  find  a  sentimen- 
tal stir  within  us  because  they  take  it  for 
granted  that  we  are  not  liars.  But  the 
first  thing  we  know  the  small  being  rebels. 
It  says  first,  "  There  is  no  Santa  Claus  1" 
and  then  a  little  later,  "  There  is  no  God." 
We  are  not  right.  Nor  are  they.  There 
is  a  Santa  Claus,  but  he  is  not  what  we 
led  them  to  believe.  He  has  not  for  a 
chief  characteristic  a  pot-belly,  nor  is  he 
a  jolly  little  man  with  one  finger  against 
a  small  red  nose  like  a  cranberry.  But 
he  is  none  the  less  real  for  being  a  great 
spirit  of  kindliness  toward  the  helpless, 
whose  home  is  in  the  warm  heart  of  hu- 
manity instead  of  being  located  at  the 


172  DRUMSTICKS. 

North  Pole.  And  there  is  a  God.  Not 
exactly  the  God  of  the  creeds,  perhaps. 
And  no  authentic  likeness  is  to  be  found 
upon  stained  glass  windows.  But  He  lives 
and  moves  in  great  spiritual  Law.  And 
His  name  is  Love.  And  through  this  He 
"takes  care  of  little  girls"  quite  literally 
"  if  they  are  good  and  mind  Him." 

These  were  Charlotte's  simple  thoughts. 

She  leaned  from  the  window  into  the 
new  morning,  wrapped  in  Poole's  bath- 
robe. And  her  face  was  more  beautiful 
than  Sophie's  had  ever  been  as  she 
thought  her  little  thoughts. 

She  herself  had  given  a  very  material 
God  to  a  child,  and  when,  in  the  most 
terrible  moment  of  that  sweet  child's 
life,  it  had  prayed  to  have  him  "make 
Sophie  go  away,"  Sophie  had  stayed,  in 
seeming  contempt  of  that  prayer.  And 
then  Drumsticks  had  said  : 

"  There  is  no  God." 

Just  as  we  have  all  said  at  times. 
Poole  had  always  said  so.  And  even  the 
believing  Charlotte  had  sometimes  felt 
that  perhaps  it  was  all  a  mistake,  since 


DRUMSTICKS.  173 

she  had  found  one  weak  man  faithless. 
And  no  sooner  do  we  say  this  in  onr  in- 
solence than  we  are  jerked  back  into  the 
spiritual  nursery  again.  After  that  we 
are  more  modest,  and  become  quite  free  to 
admit  that,  perhaps,  after  all,  there  may 
be  reasons  why  we  do  not  understand. 
And  we  add  that  if  He  some  day  will  but 
make  our  puzzle  clear,  we  will  be  content. 
But  when  he  does,  the  grave  robs  us  of  a 
tongue. 

And  Drumsticks  ! 

If  Drumsticks  were  dying — and  that 
evil  thing  was  so,  or  Poole  would  have  re- 
turned by  midnight,  Charlotte  believed — 
Drumsticks  was  dying  with  a  hard  little 
heart  rebelling  against  the  God  who  had 
one  morning  given  her  a  rose  for  which 
she  cared  nothing,  but  who,  when  she  had 
asked  to  be  delivered  from  the  enemy,  had 
not  listened. 

And  then  Charlotte  wondered  what 
would  be  done  in  heaven  with  such  a 
naughty  little  angel  as  she  was  sure  Drum- 
sticks would  make  under  the  circum- 
stances. But  while  she  wondered  her 


174  DKUMSTICKS. 

narrowness  fell  away  from  her.  Somehow 
or  other  she  came  to  believe  in  a  new  God, 
and,  with  Him,  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth.  And  she  remembered  that  to  see 
the  child  was  to  love  her,  and  that  she 
possessed  the  sort  of  nature  which  made 
even  strangers 

"  Soften,  sleeken  every  word, 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird," 

and  concluded  that  she  could  trust  the 
child  with  the  angels. 

And  for  the  child  Charlotte  believed 
that  all  would  be  well.  Why  should  God 
care  what  a  poor  little  child  believed  or 
did  not  believe  —  through  the  fault  of 
other  people  !  And  Charlotte  fell  asleep 
in  the  sunlight,  dreaming  that  all  was  ex- 
actly as  she  wished. 

Which  illustrates  the  chief  use  of 
dreams. 


PART  II. 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  SHIP  BEACHES  THE   STAB. 


A  butterfly  drifted  in,  and  flew 
For  a  moment  about,  and  then  out  again; 

'Into  my  life  she  came  like  you, 
And  went; '  If  altered  in  pain." 

THE  story  is  almost  finished.  It  is  not 
long,  but  neither  was  the  short  life  with 
which  it  occupies  itself.  It  was  a  simple 
life,  eager  to  live  on,  but  a  hand  turned 
the  page.  "  Little  ones  to  Him  belong. " 
So  had  run  the  nursery  hymn  at  Seas- 
crest.  And  we  do  not  believe  that  the  child 
whose  gropings  after  Him  were  thwarted 
by  mistakes  failed  to  walk  straight  into 
the  arms  of  the  Strong  One  when  the  flut- 
tering veil  fell.  It  was  a  weak  little  soul, 
but  it  was  His  own.  And  what  was — is. 

But  the  homesickness  for  good,  the 
blind  striving  after  "the  fun  other  little 
girls  had,"  the  grief  which  followed  dis- 
appointment and  loss  of  faith,  were  all  we 
could  see  of  the  small  and  quickly  passing 


176  DKUMSTICKS. 

life.  From  an  earthly  point  of  view,  it 
was  a  shipwreck — such  a  pitiful  one,  and 
of  such  a  brave  little  craft.  But  let  us 
shorten  the  story  !  Let  the  pen  hasten 
quickly  to  the  end  !  Of  what  Poole  said 
to  Sophie  when  called  to  Drumsticks' 
death-bed,  or  of  what  she  had  to  say  to 
him,  I  do  not  care  to  speak.  .  Sophie — 
and  even  Poole — are  but  introduced  in 
this  small  tale  in  such  a  way  and  manner 
as  to  explain  the  presence  and  position  of 
Drumsticks — her  narrow  life — its  sudden 
unfolding — its  brief  happiness — its  despair 
— and  its  speedy  ending. 

When  Poole  came  and  stood  by  Drum- 
sticks' bed,  away  up  in  that  fourth  story 
of  Sophie's  house,  he  saw  the  old  gray 
blanket,  and,  at  first  glance,  nothing  else. 
Then,  looking  again,  there  were  the  two 
eyes  of  her — Drumsticks'  eyes — regarding 
him  with  a  gaze  which  was  new  to  him, 
but  which  had  remained  as  an  attribute  of 
theirs  since  the  day  she  had  been  taken 
away  from  Seascrest.  There  was  about  it 
the  hunted  brilliance  found  in  the  eyes  of 
a  soft  wild  thing  lured  to  destruction  by 


DRUMSTICKS.  177 

light  of  hunter — a  something  bewildered, 
mournful,  and  reproachful.  Poole  had 
seen  a  deer  look  so  when  hunting  once  in 
the  Adirondacks.  His  hand  had  spared 
it,  hesitating  upon  the  trigger,  and  it  had 
splashed  swiftly  out  of  the  pool,  away  into 
the  heart  of  the  dim  greenery  of  under- 
brush. One  would  have  thought  death 
might  have  been  as  merciful  with  Drum- 
sticks. 

Just  what  death  should  want  with  a  lit- 
tle child,  it  is  hard  to  understand.  But 
that  death  wanted  Drumsticks,  and  would 
have  her,  Poole  did  not  much  doubt  from 
that  hour. 

Yet,  immediately  upon  his  arrival,  and 
at  his  bidding,  messengers  were  sent  for 
men  of  whom  it  had  been  said  that  they 
could  save  a  man  if  he  had  but  one  leg 
out  of  the  grave.  But  they  shook  their 
heads  with  what  seemed  a  concerted 
motion,  and  it  took  them  a  short  time 
only  to  announce  that  in  this  case  there 
was  no  hope. 

But  Drumsticks  was  not  a  man,  and 
perhaps  that  made  a  difference.  She  did 


178  DEUMSTICKS. 

not  die  that  night.  And  she  did  not 
suffer.  She  was  dying  of  a  subtle  blood 
poison,  following  one  of  those  terrible, 
swift-working  disorders  which  seem  to 
select  the  brightest  and  most  beautiful  for 
their  victims.  She  lay  composedly  all 
through  a  day  as  gray  as  her  blanket,  in 
which  she  was  huddled  to  the  last.  Twice 
during  the  day  she  asked  Poole,  whose 
presence  she  seemed  to  take  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  listen  at  her  breast. 
There  was  an  uneasy  nutter  there  which 
seemed  to  trouble  her.  The  bird  was  get- 
ting restless. 

"  Is  it  all  right?"  she  asked  him  each 
time,  uneasily. 

"  It's  all— bully  right ! "  And  then  he 
would  kiss  the  child,  and  cuddle  her,  and 
soothe  her  into  another  hour's  quiet. 
Along  in  the  afternoon  she  turned,  with  a 
little  natural  gleam  of  mirth  in  her  wide 
eyes,  and  said  in  quite  a  strong  voice  : 

"  Look,  Play-papa !  See !  Do  they 
shiver  ?  See — "  and  then  her  voice  weak- 
ened. 

Knowing  that  she  spoke  of  their  former 


DKOISTICKS.  179 

friends,  the  trees  in  the  little  park  oppo- 
site, which  they  had  named,  he  turned  to 
the  window  and  was  strong  enough  to 
humor  her  whim,  encouraging  her  cheer- 
ful mood  and  telling  her  fanciful  things 
of  the  elm,  which  she  had  named  Mr. 
Morley,  after  Sophie's  manager.  Poole 
had  seen  neither  man  nor  tree  for  months. 
But  he  went  on  weaving  little  sayings  to 
interest  her,  of  the  privet  "  Fanny,"  the 
pine,  the  maple,  and  the  lilac.  The  first 
was  still  green,  the  second  graceful  even 
while  barren  of  leaves,  and  the  lilac  had 
budded  out  of  season  and  been  frozen  for  its 
pains,  as  Xew  York  lilacs  often  are.  But 
the  slight,  swaying,  silver  birch  tree  was 
broken  off  close  at  the  root,  although  he 
told  her  nothing  of  that.  And  it  was  all 
very  wretched  and  dreary  and  wintry 
outside  in  the  little  park,  but  he  told  her 
nothing  of  that  either. 

Through  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  Drum- 
sticks lay  very  still,  thinking,  with  one 
hand  at  the  bird  in  her  breast. 

Upon  awakening,  all  she  said  during  the 


180  DRUMSTICKS. 

afternoon  which  in  any  way  related  to 
Seascrest  was  when  she  asked  : 

"Has  baby's  tooth  corned  yet  ?" 

And  Poole  remembered  that  the  subject 
had  been  one  of  overwhelming  interest  to 
her  as  well  as  to  Charlotte.  As  to  Char- 
lotte herself,  her  name  was  not  spoken. 
And  as  Poole  sat  beside  her,  holding  her 
hand,  it  struck  him  that  the  child  seemed 
strangely  old.  Onqe,  when  he  had 
been  thoughtfully  observing  the  woman 
crouched  in  the  chair  over  by  the  table, 
he  turned  and  met  Drumsticks'  eyes,  and 
they  seemed  to  be  so  very  wise  that  his 
own  fell.  Big — so  big  and  ironical !  Was 
it  scorn  which  lay  in  their  depths,  along 
with  wistf  ulness  ? 

She  occasionally  complained  of  feeling 
cold,  and  Poole  helped  her  in  her  effort 
to  draw  the  blanket  closer  about  her. 

Her  eyes  became  a  trifle  dim,  but  fol- 
lowed him  intelligently,  seeming  to  ques- 
tion, but  of  what  he  could  not  determine. 
He  was  distinctly  conscious  of  a  wish  that 
he  was  a  better  man.  He  had  heard  that 
very  young  children  seem  often  vaguely 


DRUMSTICKS.  181 

aware  of  their  approaching  dissolution, 
and  he  became  uneasily  certain  that  some 
strange  cognizance  of  the  situation  seemed 
dawning  upon  the  child.  But  Drumsticks 
said  nothing,  and  Poole  hung  over  her 
awkwardly,  cursing  himself  for  an  irre- 
ligious, ignorant  hound.  Then  again, 
aghast,  he  recalled  the  child's  utterance 
as  related  by  Charlotte. 

"  There  is  no  God !  Everything  is 
lies!" 

Was  she  dying  thus,  and  would  God — 
if  indeed  there  were  a  God — punish  the 
infidelity — the  unbelief — of  a  little  child — 
a  little  child  who  had  so  wished  to  believe 
in  Him  !  It  seemed  to  Poole  that  if  there 
were  a  God,  the  child  was  safe.  Alas  ! 
it  was  all  exceedingly  uncomfortable. 

He  was  sitting  upon  the  edge  of  her  bed, 
facing  her,  and  stroking  her  limp  little 
hand.  He  had  tried  to  find  her  pulse,  but 
its  rapidity  and  threadiness  were  not  to  be 
counted.  As  he  sat  with  his  eyes  upon  his 
little  friend  he  saw  once  more  the  ques- 
tion dumbly  written  in  her  face. 

"  See  here.  Drumsticks,"  he  ventured  at 


182  DRUMSTICKS. 

last, ' '  you're  tired ;  say  your  prayers  aud  go 
to  sleep.  I'll  sit  here  and  take  care  of  you ! 
Who  to  9 "  she  asked  with  quivering 
lips.  There  was  an  indescribable  bitter- 
ness in  the  words. 

"  Say,  Drumsticks — tell  a  fellow  what's 
the  matter.  Are  you  cross  ?  " 

"  No,  but  Play-papa — do  you  think 
there's  a  God  ?  " 

"Why,  er — er — there  must  be — don't 
you  know  I" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  studying 
his  face. 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  he  added. 

"  No,"  said  the  child,  mournfully. 

Poole  felt  the  perspiration  standing 
upon  his  cold  forehead.  What  a  situa- 
tion !  Here  he  was,  an  unbeliever,  the  only 
companion,  in  a  sense,  of  a  little  dying 
child.  As  a  boy  he  had  been  taught  that 
to  die  without  faith  was  to  be  lost — was  to 
be  consigned  to  hell,  in  fact.  Of  late  years 
he  had  doubted  this,  along  with  most  other 
spiritual  things  which  had  been  taught 
him  when  a  child.  He  gave  a  gasp  and 
made  up  his  mind  to  lie. 


DKUMSTICKS.  183 

"  See  here,  Drumsticks — did  I  ever  lie 
to  you  ? "  Thus  are  most  tremendous 
fabrications  often  introduced. 

"  No,"  said  the  little  girl,  hesitatingly. 

"  Well — this  is  square  !  There  is  a  God, 
and — er — a  heaven/'  He  wished  that  he 
himself  could  believe  it.  But  to  such  as 
Poole,  nothing  is  true — everything  is  true 
— all  depending  on  the  point  of  view. 

The  child  listened  intently. 

"And  He  does— love  little  girls  ?  " 

"  Why — by  Jove — of  course  He  does  !  " 

"  It  doesn't  seem — as  if — it  could — all 
just  happen — "  said  the  child,  thought- 
fully, and  after  a  long  pause. 

Then  she  fell  once  more  into  a  light 
slumber. 

And  so  the  day  passed.  As  it  grew  dusk 
— at  about  the  time  when  Drumsticks  be- 
lieved the  white  sail  furled  and  the  tiny 
ship  anchored  safe  against  the  star — the 
life — the  bit  of  a  spark  which  belongs  to 
Him — went  out  of  her — and  the  thing 
came  to  pass  which  men  call  death.  And 
the  child  lay  so  lightly  in  the  lap  of  the 
Angel  that  Poole  felt  sure  she  had  found 


184  DEUMSTICKS. 

her  best  friend,  for,  at  least,  she  was  out 
of  it  all. 

He  withdrew  his  hand  from  hers  just  as 
Joy  brought  a  light  to  the  bedside.  He 
told  her  what  he  thought  had  happened 
there,  in  the  twilight,  and  Joy  burst  into 
tears  and  exclamations,  going  below  to 
call  Sophie,  who  had  not  been  in  the  room 
at  the  time. 

While  she  was  gone,  Poole  leaned  over 
the  child  and  listened  for  the  bird.  He 
heard  nothing ;  for  its  nest  was  now  de- 
serted. He  kissed  the  peace  of  the  white 
brow,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 
hear  Drumsticks  ask,  as  so  often  before  : 

"  Is  it  all  right,  Play-papa  ?  " 

"  It's  all  right  ! "  he  answered,  aloud, 
quite  as  before  that  day,  adding  to  him- 
self, "  Would  to  God  my  heart  were  as 
quiet!" 

But  he  did  not  really  mean  that. 

Then  he  went  away  to  wire  Charlotte. 

And  as  he  walked  over  to  the  telegraph 
office,  he  wondered  very  much.  And  to 
an  accompaniment  of  the  feet,  slipping, 
sliding,  shuffling,  gliding  through  the 


DBUMSTICKS.  185 

slush  of  the  melting  first  snow,  his  won- 
der shaped  itself  to  know,  even  as  he 
asked  himself  :  ' '  Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges 
d'Antan  ? "  as  Villon  puts  it,  and  it 
seemed  for  a  brief  moment  as  if  he  under- 
stood it  all.  But  what  he  knew  in  that 
moment  he  lost,  like  the  rest  of  us,  in  the 
next.  It  is  as  if  the  curtain  lifts  a  bit  as 
we  kiss  dead  lips.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he 
found  himself  no  wiser  after  than  before, 
and  reduced  to  guessing  like  the  rest  of 
us.  The  roofs  of  the  great  town  were 
powdered  with  snow,  and  it  seemed  to  Poole 
that  all  of  the  people  they  should  have 
sheltered  in  that  hour  were  in  the  streets. 
Through  the  crowds  he  stole  along  with 
that  strange  fixedness  of  gaze  seen  upon 
the  faces  of  those  who  have  recently 
looked  upon  Death. 

He  wired  Charlotte  this  : 

" It  is  all  over.  Home  to-morrow 
night.  JACK." 

And  she  understood  and  read  it  with 
that  sense  of  shock  with  which  we  receive 
that  sort  of  news,  even  when  we  know  it 
was  all  we  had  to  expect. 


186  DRUMSTICKS. 

"  From  Jack  ?  What  has  he  to  say  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Applegute.  They  were  at  the 
breakfast  table,  for  the  wire  had  been  a 
night  message. 

"All  going  well.  Shall  come  home  to- 
morrow night,"  read  Charlotte,  holding 
the  oblong  piece  of  paper  before  her,  and 
speaking  with  duplicity  of  tone  as  well 
as  of  word.  Really,  it  was  extraordinary 
of  Charlotte.  And  then  she  tore  the 
thing  into  bits,  and  calmly  tossed  the 
only  evidence  against  her  into  the  fire. 
Mrs.  Applegate  was  satisfied.  She  even 
overcame  all  of  her  suspicions  finally,  and 
after  a  bit  was  known  to  wonder  "  how 
Drumsticks  was  getting  on,"  which  she, 
perhaps,  would  have  done  even  if  she  had 
come  to  know  the  truth,  which  she  never 
did. 

As  for  Poole,  he  remained  in  town  but 
long  enough  to  attend  to  certain  details 
with  patient  earnestness.  The  following 
day  he  gathered  the  frail  little  body  of 
Drumsticks  into  his  arms  and  carried  it 
downstairs,  laying  it  within  the  small 
white  bed  he  had  himself  purchased,  and 


DRUMSTICKS.  187 

which  was  to  be  her  last.  As  his  slow 
feet  descended  the  long  stairways  cau- 
tiously his  mind  reverted  to  the  first 
night  he  had  met  the  child,  and  had 
carried  her  upstairs  to  bed.  That  was 
over  three  months  ago. 

A  barefoot  child,  she  had  stood  in  a 
trailing  night  robe,  clamoring  for  sweets, 
at  the  head  of  the  staircase  in  a  house 
where  his  feet  carried  him  whenever  he 
could  set  his  soul  aside.  A  child  with 
strange  graces  of  attraction,  the  child  of  a 
Columbine  and  a  Pierrot.  And  she  had 
smiled  at  him,  and  he,  a  man  who  had 
never  before  cared  for  children,  cared  for 
her  from  that  hour — cared  for  her  so  well 
that  now  there  was  a  lump  in  his  throat 
which  he  was  convinced  would  never  allow 
itself  to  be  swallowed.  There  had  been  a 
smell  of  flowers  about  that  night,  and  he 
had  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  ran  up  the 
three  flights  of  stairs,  carrying  her  away 
from  it  all,  to  her  bed  and  her  dreams. 
There  were  flowers  to-day — a  heavy  odor — 
and  he  was  carrying  her  down  those  same 
stairs  to  another  bed,  and  to  a  sleep  which 


188  DRUMSTICKS. 

might  or  might  not  be  dreamless.  The 
man  does  not  live  who  can  tell  us  that. 
And  with  these  thoughts  expressed  to  him- 
self a  bit  more  brusquely,  Poole  laid  the 
child  very  carefully  out  of  his  arms  into 
the  restfulness  which  it  seemed  had  come 
to  her.  And  the  man  was  glad  that  his 
arms  had  been  the  last  to  hold  her. 

It  seemed  strange  that  Drumsticks  should 
at  last  take  things  so  quietly.     She  who, 
"  Moving  light,  as  all  young  things, 
As  young  birds,  or  early  wheat 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it," 
had  always  been  so   full   of  movement. 
And  he  knew  that,  living,  no  such  rest 
could  ever  have  come  to  one  of  her  heart 
and  brain,  whom  life  had  made  the  child 
of  a  Columbine  and  a  Pierrot. 

And  so  he  left  her,  turning,  however, 
at  the  door. 

A  virginal  mystery  of  seven  maiden 
summers,  a  little  child  lying  lightly,  as  if 
tossed  with  carelessness  into  the  lap  of 
death ;  a  smile  in  eclipse,  a  face  half 
turned  away,  its  cheek  and  lip  half  show- 
ing, with  still  a  little  color  in  them.  But 
most  of  all,  a  whiteness — the  rest  a  smile. 


PART  II. 
CHAPTER  V. 

SHOWING      THAT      THE      LUCKY      SINKER 
KNOWS     A    WOMAN. 


"  The  hand  which  hath  held  a  violet  doth  not  soon 
forego  her  perfume,  nor  the  cup  from  which  sweet  wine 
hath  flowed  his  fragrance." 

POET  OF  SHIRAZ. 

IT  seemed  to  Poole  as  if  Death  had  set 
his  ugly  period  after  the  sentence  of  his 
sin,  and  in  his  morbid  mental  condition 
the  death  of  the  child  seemed  to  follow  as 
a  sequence,  which  it  was  not,  of  that  sin. 
At  any  rate,  it  was  all  over  now. 

The  blunder  of  it — the  raging — the 
terror — and — yes,  the  charm  of  it  !  The 
will  that  is  as  the  will  of  the  wind  !  Alas 
for  the  fever — the  fury — and  the  intoxica- 
tion of  the  sad  mad  men  who  sink  into 
the  mire,  only  to  turn,  at  the  last,  hopeless 
eyes  pure  woman-ward ! 

Well  for  a  man  then — oh,  well  for 
him  ! — if  he  can  turn  him  to  a  Charlotte. 
A  Charlotte  whose  gracious  soul,  abundant 


190  DRUMSTICKS. 

in  mercy,  knows  how  to  forget  as  well  as 
to  forgive,  and  whose  pure,  cool  hand  can 
heal  the  fever  of  his  sin  and  give  as  a  gift 
that  forgetfulness  which  is  already  her 
own. 

And  Poole  went  at  once  to  his  Char- 
lotte. 

He  arrived  in  the  late  afternoon.  As 
soon  as  they  were  alone  in  their  room, 
Poole  answered  the  question  in  Char- 
lotte's eyes  by  picking  up  a  book  of  Mr. 
Bunner's  delightful  verse,  which  opened 
at  a  page  that  had  so  delighted  Drum- 
sticks where  Charlotte  had  read  : 

"  There  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  who  was  half-past  three — " 

He  knew  that  the  bird  in  her  breast  had 
always  leaped  to  its  musical  quaintness, 
and  he  laid  upon  the  words  a  little  stiff 
prim  lock  of  dark  hair.  Charlotte  took 
the  book  from  him  and  stood  looking  at  it 
thoughtfully  as  he  unpacked  from  his 
travelling  bag  an  old  gray  blanket  and 
flung  it  over  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  ran 
his  hand  softly  over  its  surface,  looking 
from  his  wife  to  it  and  then  back  again. 


DRUMSTICKS.  191 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
finally,  and  stood  with  the  shadow  of  the 
Puzzle  on  his  face. 

"So  —  she  —  Drumsticks  —  is  really 
dead?"  said  Charlotte,  slowly,  tenderly  re- 
garding the  little  tress.  When  she  closed 
the  book  a  tear  fell.  "So — she  is  dead?" 

"  Yes.  That's  a  devil  of  a  word,  Char- 
lotte !  That  word— dead  !  " 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  pull  off  his 
shoes,  Charlotte  hastening  to  fetch  him 
his  slippers.  Later  she  poured  him  a 
small  glass  of  brandy,  which  he  tossed  off, 
smiling  to  think  that  the  scene  was  like 
certain  old  times.  As  he  sat  looking  up 
at  her,  she  sank  upon  her  knees  beside 
him,  and,  her  brown  head  upon  his  breast, 
began  to  cry  softly.  It  seemed  strange  to 
her  that  he  should  show  so  little  feeling 
about  the  death  of  the  child. 

"  Oh,  Jack  —  whatever  was  she  born 
for!" 

"  Who  knows  !  But  having  been  born 
— it — she  was  dead  lucky — to  die." 

Before  they  went  down  to  dinner  the 
two  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  frosted 


192  DRUMSTICKS. 

window,  looking  out.  He  placed  his 
arms  about  her,  and  she  leaned  pliantly 
against  him.  Suddenly  she  said  : 

"  Look,  Jack  !  Do  you  remember  ? 
There  is  Drumsticks'  star — far  out — over 
there  ! " 

And  their  hearts  stirred  and  melted  into 
one  again  as  they  thought  of  that  sweet 
child.  The  star  was  perhaps  seen  by 
thousands,  but  to  them  it  was  merely 
"  Drumsticks'  star."  And  ever  would  be. 

And,  gazing  through  the  lens  of  a  tear, 
Charlotte,  blessed  Charlotte,  was  enabled, 
by  faith,  to  say  : 

"  Good-night,  dear  Drumsticks  ! " 

While  Poole,  in  doubt,  could  only  mur- 
mur : 

"  Good-bye,  sweet  child  ! " 

So — good-night  and  good-bye. 


Lawrence,  Long  Island,  November  the 
twenty-eighth,  eighteen  hundred  and 
ninety-four,- 


' 


UC  SOUTHERN  REG lOfiW.  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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